


Birds of a Feather

by Nanosilver



Category: Pathfinder: Kingmaker (Video Game)
Genre: Aasimar Baroness, Cleric Baroness, Crisis of Faith, F/M, Falling In Love, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Romance, Self-Hatred, Some Fluff, Some angst, some drama
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-03-17 09:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 82,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18962968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nanosilver/pseuds/Nanosilver
Summary: The longer he walked by her side, the more the differences between them seemed trivial and yet the worse his lies and manipulation became. She was an Aasimar, a child of the higher planes, with a smile so warm that it reminded him more of home each passing day.





	1. The Grace of Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> I went into this game with zero understanding of the setting, the content of the game or any of the characters. A friend gifted it to me and I thought "why the hell not". Only thing I brought with me was my tendency to play holy classes and Aasimar thanks to my NWN2 days way back then.  
> So the fic is based primarily on the path of my MC with Tristian and the changes she went through, with backstory, some branches and flavor added where I found it fitting, and somewhat extended past the end. Very spoiler-heavy, wouldn't recommend reading before having finished the game. Developed out of a one-shot, too many post-romance feels and pure self-indulgence, may be a bit chaotic in places because of that.  
> The focus is definitely on the romantic aspect, I'm not gonna spend much time on the game plot beyond its influence on their relationship. That's a kind of overkill I'm not gonna subject myself to.  
> That said, have fun!

* * *

 

 

_“Before we go, can you tell me a little bit about yourself? Where you come from, what you did before this, that sort of thing?”_

_“Once upon a time there was an Aasimar cleric from Mendev who **just** finished her education. And then she was sent here. The end.”_

_“It’s not the end, our story barely even started! Why were you sent here?”_

_“Hah. I wish I knew.”_

* * *

In the dim hours before dawn, she awoke bathed in sweat and yet shivering from the cold morning air upon her skin. Dreams had been nothing but nightmares since her arrival in the Stolen Lands, wrought with strange visions, souls calling for her help and enemies trying to distract her.

But this vision had been of the more _familiar_ kind.

Beside her, Linzi had managed to wriggle out of her bedroll in her sleep, barely awake now that her nightmares had disturbed her rest. On the other end of the clearing, Valerie was quietly observing her, dutifully watching the camp as the rest of them slept. Some more than others.

Flashes of her dream came to her in waves, flooding her memory with pictures of a crumbling old temple; a disgusting fog, waters corrupted. Holy light destroyed. And worst of all, a divine servant in peril.

“Linzi,” she breathed. “Linzi!”

The halfling blinked, only half-awake. “Eh?” she groaned, sleep heavy on her voice and mind.

“The map. Give me the map.”

“Wha? Oh…”  The bard seemed to finally comprehend and began digging through her pack beside her; it took a good moment for her to pull out the old, abused map from beneath stacks of paper, pens, and notebooks. The thing had been folded a thousand times in a thousand places, leaving it brittle and susceptible to tearing.

Valerie seemed to have decided to join their two-people conference, casually wandering over from her watch position on the bench. “Did you have a vision again?”

Linzi was suddenly wide awake, eyes the size of ripe plums. “Ooooh,” she breathed, “did you?”

Annaie paid them no mind, busy unfolding the map on the ground. Her eyes scanned the vicinity of the Narlmarches, until they fell on a spot just south of the Thorn River’s end. Her heart suddenly sped up, hammering in her chest to the unheard rhythm of a thousand bells going off in her head. _There, there, there!_ They sang, over and over, until she finally closed the map, taking a deep breath to steady herself.

 _Stupid visions. When I die I’m gonna find that Celestial and punt him into the Maelstrom._  

The now fully awake members of her party stared at her, all four of them, blinking owlishly in the dark. (Except for Valerie, who was beautifully uninterested in her divine struggles and had returned to her watch position. Bless her.)  Or _not_ dark, because the glowing contours of her halo were now serving as a bright beacon in the middle of the clearing, lighting up their faces in the dead of the night. Linzi immediately began to scribble something into her notebook.

“Can you turn that off? You’re destroying our camouflage.”

Ah, the voice of reason. Thanks, Valerie.

Annaie dismantled the glowing halo with a sigh, then she dropped onto her bedroll and rolled over, turning her back to the rest of them.

“I’m going back to sleep. Go get some rest, we’ll be leaving for the temple after dawn.”

Whatever questions they had on their minds, they clearly decided that dealing with her mood wasn’t worth asking them and all went back to what they’d been doing, which was sleeping. 

Never become a cleric. It is _such_ a hassle.

* * *

When she first laid eyes upon him, she recognized the grace of Heaven.

It was a moment of excitement; _he might be of my kind._ Planetouched like her. She’d spent the past weeks trekking through mud, dirt, corpses (some dead, some very much alive) and who knew what else, looking for some kind of hint on how to solve the problem with the cursed fog. Meeting another heavenly creature in this godforsaken land seemed like a kiss from the divine to her. A gift.

She also recognized the fact that he was covered in injuries torn by claws the size of her entire arm; time was preciously short if she wanted this gift to make it. She sent Valerie and Amiri to take the giant bear’s focus off the priest, then quickly rushed between him and certain death, alternating between yelling foul curses and speaking actual divine prayers with some semblance of power.

Her mentor had always reprimanded her for her filthy language, and yet she had never lost the habit.

The damn thing finally went down with one last rear up on its hind legs, toppling over and crashing down on its back with the force of a massive tree being uprooted. It certainly sounded quite the same, it was hard to tell if the thing was tree or bear or both.  

She immediately sheathed her sword and dropped to her knees beside the priest, inspecting the extent of his injuries. She recognized the statuette of Sarenrae which he held gingerly in his trembling hand, clinging to it like a lifeline. His priest robes were torn up and soaked bloody. Still, he graced her with a warm welcome and a gentle smile, introducing himself as Tristian, a devoted servant of Sarenrae. 

She could barely contain her excitement; another young devotee of the divine, out here in the middle of nowhere. Some semblance of familiarity. Someone upstairs _had_ to have taken mercy on her.

Unfortunately, her mercy seemed to be about to pass out on the ground.

“ _Shit_ , I’m out of spells. Linzi?!” she called across the yard with her booming outdoor voice; the way to the temple had been long and exhausting, they had fought their way through the hordes of cursed beasts here and most of her strength was spent just on standing upright at this point.

The Bard came up behind her looking somewhat worse for the wear than she had when they left camp this morning. “Got nothing, sorry,” she muttered with a regretful stare.

There was no one else in their party who could heal, and they were out of potions.

The young man however quickly assured her that he would be fine, that he was a skilled healer and would be able to make it to Oleg’s on his own. She helped him up on his legs, but his stance was weak and wobbly; she didn’t like it and she didn’t like the thought of leaving him to himself out here in this godforsaken wilderness. He looked incredibly queasy and pale. 

Yet he insisted, and somehow hobbled his way down the path of the temple, looking like he was ready to collapse every step of the way. It seemed _insane_ to let him go, but her creed did forbid her to force aid upon people who rejected it. Still, she frowned, watching his back till he was out of her sight.

What a strange person. Hopefully he’d arrive alive. She’d have to go looking for him otherwise, and she really didn’t look forward to another trek through this uncivilized wilderness.

 

* * *

 

_“Hello, my fair Skylark. Won’t you sing for me today?”_

_“I would not know how to sing the songs you’d wish to hear.”_

_“Oh, such **sting** you have. But you’ve sung them for me, Skylark, many times. And you will again. I have a new Hound for you to charm; dazzle her with your sunlit smile. She is young and naïve and so very eager to please. You truly are birds of a feather.”  _

 

* * *

The first time he saw her, she was already beautiful.

The touch of Heaven upon her was like a fresh breeze, like the sun on his face, the kiss of dawn on his skin. For a moment he wondered if Sarenrae had sent a messenger to deliver him from his suffering, an angel in his hour of need to free him from Nyrissa’s cold grasp and return him to his goddess’ gentle grace.

She cut through the cursed creatures with divine fury, longsword in hand and Celestial words on her lips, and she and her companions quickly dispatched the bear that had nearly torn him to shreds with coordinated ease. How ironic that Nyrissa’s plans had almost fallen apart through her own making. Or maybe she had in fact planned for him to nearly get torn apart; she had so very little regard for all her favorite toys.

His wounds were extensive, but he would be quite fine, he was certain of that - and yet the future Baroness rushed to his side immediately, eyes on his crimson-soaked robes, cursing up a storm as she commanded her small party.

“Shit, I’m out of spells. Linzi?”

“Got nothing, sorry.”

He saw the mark of Iomedae then, a golden sun-circled sword running from her forehead to her chin in sharp, bold lines. Not a messenger of Sarenrae. Not the deliverance he had hoped for. His heart sank, remembering that he was here to be this woman’s downfall, to tear her down in Nyrissa’s name. The moment of hope tasted bitter in his mouth, and more bitter still to think that an honorable servant of Iomedae would become another victim of this curse.

And yet… she was beautiful still. Golden hair cropped short, eyes the color of honey, ebony skin. Clad in Iomedae’s simple yet imposing garbs. It was hard to take his eyes off her, and soothing to see this otherworldly haze among the corpses of civilization that dotted the Stolen Lands like a massive graveyard.

“I’m a skilled healer,” he reassured her, offering a firm smile, even though his insides were screaming in pain. He gave her his practiced introduction, feeling more disgusting with every word in his mouth, tongue heavy and lame. It was sheer practice carrying him through his pitiful performance. She was so kind, and he rewarded her with lies. Nothing but lies.

He couldn’t bear it; he had to get away from them, get out of their sight, get out of her divine grace. He told them he’d be on his way to the Trade Post on his own and stumbled down the path to the temple with a lurching stomach. They faded from his sensing range and he immediately threw up into a nearby bush, a terrible, _wretched_ sound, stomach content mixed with disgustingly black blood spewing forth from his throat. His mouth tasted like bile as he knelt there for a good hour, pathetic and pitiful and trembling.

Eternities passed before he could drag himself back up; he healed the worst of his injuries, which would allow him to hopefully at least get to the Trade Post alive. Then he began to wonkily make his way north, walking steadily towards his doom.

 

* * *

Overestimating his abilities was becoming a general theme in his life, apparently.

Tristian made it perhaps… a third of the way before his vision began to periodically fade out. He could barely focus on the road ahead and more and more often he opened his eyes in a completely different place than he had closed them.

He wasn’t going to make it. Not like this.

His feet caught on the roots of a massive tree; his hands just barely managed to hold on to the enormous trunk, allowing him to catch most of his weight against the tree; the impact still knocked the wind out of him and was mind-numbingly painful besides. He winced, then groaned, nails digging into the hard bark until his fingers bled.

_Shit._

_Deep breaths. Sarenrae, help…_

Somehow he managed to turn over against the pain, pressing into the trunk with his backside. It took some of the pressure off, giving him some space for actual thoughts beyond desperately wanting to die.

_Inhale, exhale._

Every breath hurt like a searing knife in the middle of his chest. Some of these injuries had to heal, _somehow_ , or this was going to kill him.

 _I’m the deva of bad ideas_ , he thought bitterly.

If he could get to the ground at least… sit down. Take a deep breath. His legs trembled with the task of holding his body up against the trunk; his vision was again beginning to fade.

Something had to have ruptured when he stumbled.

Finally the last of his strength left him and he slid towards the ground, back still pressed against the tree. The impact shot from his hip through his spine, sending waves of pain through his entire torso, stinging, ripping, _blinding_ -

He couldn’t even scream _it was so painful_ -

Shit, shit, shit.

He had to stay awake, if he blacked out he was as good as dead. His eyelids were heavy as anvils, tempting him to just let go.

When he reopened his eyes the rancid smell of rotten meat and death had replaced the copper scent of blood. His eyes could focus just barely enough to recognize several rows of massive teeth close enough to touch his nose; wet drool dropped on his forehead. With every breath, he was engulfed by disgusting, rancid air.

Fantastic.

The thing growled, a massive claw pressed down on his leg; he howled in pain, his nails dug into the dirt beneath. Apparently, this confirmation of him being alive was enough for the creature to consider him dinner. It dipped its head huge head, ready to chomp on him with its disgusting maw.

What a way to end…

The ground cracked and heaved beneath them, bulging like a stirred animal hidden below the layers of dirt. His mind was barely awake enough to register the sound of snapping roots and cracking bark underneath.

Barbed roots shot from the ground, curling around the predator’s muzzle, limbs, its torso, worming through its skin; the entire beast was enveloped by tangling roots, its bloodcurdling scream was the only thing filling the empty space between the trees. Tristian closed his eyes, unwilling to observe the bloody spectacle, but he still very much _heard_. Bones cracked, flesh ripped, blood seeped through the gaps between the verdant deathtrap and into his already ruined and filthy robes.

 His eyes reopened to the sight of a mangled corpse dangling from the tangled roots, entrails, organs and muscles mushed together into a horrid-smelling mess.

He’d vomit, but he was too tired.

“Skylark,” she drawled. He heard her click her tongue, then Nyrissa’s lithe shadow emerged between the trees like a phantom, ready to haunt him to his lonely grave. The biting tone of mock disappointment sharply cut his mind. He’d flinch if he had the energy. “You were supposed to play with my Hound, not get yourself killed by one.”

The roots retreated back to their subterranean kingdom, taking the filthy cadaver with them. For a few seconds, he only heard the disgusting slurps of a crushed body being dragged underground. Then the place went silent.

He groaned.

“Know what the smart thing would have been?”

Tristian somehow managed to get himself to look at her. The Nymph’s eyes were dark and clouded with anger, but they always were. She hated more than she felt anything else; she was hateful and filthy and vile.

The roots that had saved his pathetic life barely a minute before now curled around his wrists, digging underneath his skin with sharp, burning pain. He screamed, the pain shot up his arm, creeping along his shoulder and into his chest, every heartbeat seemed to carry it further through his bloodstream like searing poison.

“The smart thing would have been to let her and her little menagerie carry you back to the Trade Post, my Skylark.”

He threw his head back in pain and hit the trunk, sending even more pain through his head in sharp waves. For an eternity his existence was nothing but agony, searing, stabbing _agony_ in every part of his body. His arms, his legs, his head, his chest; he was dead, he had to be _dead_ and he was being punished for his failing, this wasn’t, this _couldn’t_ -

…Just like that, it faded.

Tristian couldn’t bring himself to open his eyes… at least not yet. Breathing still hurt, but the worst of the wounds had been healed. When he finally dared to look down at himself, nothing but bloodied pricks on his wrists remained where the roots had connected.

Nyrissa was gone.

Of course. Couldn’t let him die like that.

He forced himself back up on his legs and readied himself to continue his long walk north. She could at least have healed his injuries completely, but she didn’t care to do that. Nyrissa liked to see him suffer, and therefore suffer he would.

The Trade Post was still a long way off. Better get going.

 

 

* * *

How nice it would’ve been to arrive at the Trade Post, have his injuries healed without a fuss and continue this story without another moment of nearly dying in a ditch.

Alas, he passed out just barely in sight of the gates.

 When he next awoke, he was laid out on a bed with no recollection of how he got there and with blinding sunlight shining right into his eye through a wide window. Fair Sarenrae and her light were always beautiful, but even Tristian somewhat valued his eyesight and quickly covered it with a hand. The room around him smelled of dust, old fabrics and wood and many decades come and gone.

But it also smelled of blood.

Muffled voices passed through the nearly closed door. Tristian could barely focus long enough to see anything more than colorful blotches all around him; his brain took a good amount of time to reassemble itself. Several moments passed, the conversation didn’t stop. After a while, his ears remembered how to function and the distant words beyond the door began to make sense; words became sentences, sounds became voices. Two distinct ones, taking on shape and tone.

A man and a woman. They were… arguing.

“Why did you let him go? That was completely insane!”

“He insisted!”

“It’s an utter miracle he made it here. His goddess must’ve been with him on that trek.”

Alas, the truth was vastly more cruel. The memory of Nyrissa dragging him out of his self-dug grave rested on his mind like salt on the tongue.

 “I’m not allowed to force my help on people, Jhod.”

… The Aasimar. He recognized the powerful voice, that was her. _He had made it._

The relief that followed was short-lived, as it was quickly haunted by a mind-numbing wave of pain. He writhed and curled up on the sheet, arms coiled around his stomach; wincing and whimpering and whining like a small child. The sunlight was stinging his eyes, the world was too bright.

It was hard to say how long he lay there, engulfed by his own misery. Someone came and gently but firmly rolled him on his back against all resistance.

“Easy.”

He could barely see her against the blinding sunlight behind her, but her dark silhouette freed him from the stabbing pain in his eyes. A pair of golden irises peered at him from above, traces of divinity dancing within them like tender sparks.

Divinity…

He wanted to go home… to Sarenrae…

The warm weight of a hand gently fell on his forehead, prompting him to close his eyes. The woman whispered softly, “May the Lady Valor bless you.” Her voice seemed to split into many, carried by the unseen choirs of the higher planes. And the light… it sang from within and spread through her hand, seeping into his skull like the water on the gentle shores of Nirvana.

Somehow the pain nearly ceased, banished to being nothing but a dull, distant ache somewhere beyond himself. Peace and serenity greeted him like an old friend, long time apart but not forgotten. Many years had passed since he had last felt so at peace, engulfed by a familiar warmth. Tendrils of energy crept underneath his skin, reaching ever further inside, mending the flesh and the ruptured vessels it passed.

“These wounds are very deep. He seems pretty out of it…”

“I did my best, but he’ll have to heal much of this naturally. If I can’t manage it, you definitely won’t.”

For a moment there was anger. Then it was gone.

She bit down the spark of annoyance. He could feel it, simmering underneath her skin. The light grew sharp for only a moment, just barely long enough to make him flinch.

“I can still make it a little easier for him.” The next words were much quieter; he had to strain his hearing to catch them. “Since I already failed to get him here in one piece…”

Did she feel guilty? She shouldn’t. Letting people make their own decisions was the right thing. Even if they made bad choices. He was the king of making bad choices.

His blurry gaze fell on her dark-skinned face. She seemed concerned, her golden eyebrows creased slightly as she observed his mending wounds. Her hand retreated from his face, leaving his forehead cold and bare. The warm light faded, but the pain remained distant, held at bay by the memory of warmth.

“We found the temple. It’s been cleansed.”

Oh, the temple, yes. Cleansed… It was never truly cursed. If only she could know the truth. The only true curse in this land was the Nymph herself.  

His strength left him and he simply fell asleep as their conversation about the temple ruins faded into the background, becoming only distant noise.

 

 

* * *

Maybe she should’ve waited for him to pass out at the temple and then just have dragged him home. He would’ve arrived in a vastly better state than… this.

Jhod had stripped him of most of his clothes. The majority of his possessions were either drenched in blood, torn to shreds or a pitiful combination of both. Svetlana had volunteered to wash them and try to fix whatever still seemed salvageable, but most of it would simply have to be replaced. She didn’t mind buying supplies for her companions, but a priest’s robes could easily hold sentimental value beyond their normal function, not to mention the various enchantments and blessings many of them had woven into the fabrics.

The bear seemed to nearly have bitten him in half. Several of his ribs were broken, it was a sheer miracle that his lungs weren’t riddled with holes. What was perhaps worse was the haphazard attempts at healing that had been foisted upon the poor man; the flesh was mended in places, but the lines were faulty and almost glued together rather than truly resealed. Jhod had to undo much of it, which helped explain why the healing process of the young priest was taking so long.

If the man had done that to himself, he was the worst healer she had ever seen. No cleric would heal broken flesh like that. It almost looked like… like plant matter of sorts. She couldn’t even place it.

He wasn’t awake much. The first few days he seemed more or less delirious. She took the opportunity and let her entire party have a few days off at the Trade Post. Now that the problem with the fog was solved, they would have to wait for a path to the bandit’s fort. Until then, she didn’t mind checking up on the priest’s injuries every morning. Her companions were grateful for the reprieve for the most part, though some of them only needed one day to get stir crazy. Surprisingly, steadfast Valerie was among them.

On the third day, he was fully awake for once. She was getting dressed in the upstairs room, her companions had already dispersed around the yard outside. She usually kicked them out of the room as fast as possible, since their chatter and noisy darting and dashing around the place had a high risk of disturbing their injured friend’s rest.  

Huffing and groaning pulled her attention to the bed by the window while she was still in the process of climbing into her shirt. Tristian had begun to sit up, weight resting on his trembling arms. His face was a potent mix of confusion, misery, and anxiety.

“Don’t get up,” she barked hastily, hopping to his side only halfway into her pants. “It took us forever to patch you up.”

He looked at her, blinked once, blinked twice – then he seemed to finally understand where he was, gazed around the room with wide eyes and finally returned to staring at her, all this while still not having said a word.

Damn, he was kinda cute. Although he currently looked like death.

“Thank you for saving me again,” he muttered; a mild blush quickly developed on his pale cheeks, born from the embarrassment of nearly having died _twice_ in her vicinity.

“You’re something. I honestly just should’ve knocked you out at the temple.”

He chuckled lightly, which was quickly followed by regret, for the force of the motion visibly caused him pain. His chest was still a mess, though Jhod had done a good job healing more and more of the damage every day. She had also tried contributing, though her healing was… not very comparable, to say the least.

“How are you feeling?” she inquired and claimed the small stool by his bedside. Jhod spent a good amount of time watching their problematic priest here while being consistently grumpy and mad about it. She was glad the other priest wasn’t going to be the first person to welcome Tristian back to the living.

He looked down on himself, studying the mess of bandages, injuries, and bruises for a moment. “A little pierced, I think.”

Oh. Just _barely_ awake and already joking about it. She laughed, genuinely entertained, then crossed her arms as she gazed at him with an arched brow. “I think we’ll get along well,” she said, lips split by a toothy grin.

The young priest smiled, but the gesture was accompanied by a sense of anxiety, simmering beneath the surface. “I hope so.”

 

* * *

Annaie was her name. She had a mild accent, marking her as a stranger in these lands.

From the start she seemed to trust him; almost unnaturally drawn to him, she spoke to him every morning, asking him questions about himself and his life; she checked up on his wounds as he rested in the upstairs room of the Trade Post, whispering gentle prayers to ease his pain before heading out to wherever. She had to be so young, fresh out of the temple, and she soaked up his stories about the pious acolyte like a sponge, finding in them some kind of familiarity that she missed in this cursed and dark place.

It was a cover story he had scarcely changed within the past years, but now he felt truly guilty for the first time while using it. Most people in these lands couldn’t relate to a priest’s upbringing which allowed him to move relatively freely and somewhat disconnect from those around him, but she _did_ , and strongly so. It was clear that she was Aasimar, such life was often marked by loneliness and sometimes even hostility – either that or excessive veneration. It seemed like she had primarily experienced the latter end of that spectrum, and desperately sought someone of her kind to share her experience with.

He wasn’t even Aasimar, not remotely. Whatever she felt in him, it had to be leftovers of whatever Nyrissa _hadn’t_ stolen from him. If there was even anything of the sort. A lingering touch of the divine that she was sensitive to.

It was so painful, and yet he wanted her to speak to him each time he heard her coming up the stairs. There was _something_ about her, the innocent idealism, the optimistic demeanor. She looked ahead and didn’t look back, shaking off any fear and doubt. Was it her faith that gave her such strength? It wouldn’t surprise him, and yet the answer shockingly seemed too mundane.  

It took him about a week after waking up to recover fully. None of the healers present were skilled enough to completely heal his injuries, particularly his broken ribs were giving all of the present ones trouble, and he found that his own strength was only slowly returning to him, although he still tried to spend some of it healing his own wounds. The effort ended up knocking him out more often than not. He spent some of his nights in pain, praying for sleep to come, curled up into a small, vulnerable ball under the covers. Being this slow to heal was a nightmare and a curse.

Annaie and her group were only rarely fully present now that he was awake. She was hard at work trying to drive the Staglord from these lands, not realizing that she was being manipulated by Nyrissa the entire time; his heart sank to the bottom of the Abyss each time he heard her talking to her friends about the strange Nymph that had come to ask her for help.

Things were lively whenever the group spent the night at the Trade Post. Laughter from downstairs, drinks, boastful jokes. Speculations about the future. Stories from their trips through the landscape. Friendly teasing. He was sure he heard a bunch of wolves howling once, summoned onto the scene, followed by furious yelling from the locale’s owner. They weren’t a particularly quiet bunch, but the owner of the Trade Post seemed to tolerate them with benevolence, perhaps for the vague hope of finally being freed from the bandit that currently ruled these lands.

One morning she came upstairs to bring him breakfast, carrying a tray of fresh bread, some fruit and a jug of pressed juice. He hated that his body required sustenance, it was _so_ inconvenient, but it’s not something he could let her know – and it would destroy this small kindness of hers, to bring him his food all the way up here on her own. She seemed particularly interested in him and in making his life a little less painful while he recovered, which shamed him, but he couldn’t deny feeling grateful for it.

He quickly noticed the satchel around her waist, slung over her shoulder. A book was tied to her side, he soon recognized it as her prayer book, and the longsword dangled from her hip – he realized from the position that she had to be left-handed. Half her armor was already in place, missing only the most difficult pieces. She sat down by his bedside, placing the tray on the small end table next to him. Noises were coming from downstairs; all in all, it seemed like they were gearing up to leave.

“Thank you,” he muttered. She kindly poured him a drink and handed him the cup. The fruit had been cut into mouth-sized pieces already, practically asking to be eaten.

Sweet mercy, he was being spoiled by this woman he hardly knew.

“It’s no problem. We’re about to leave for the fort,” she said, smiling softly for a brief but warm moment. “Wanted to make sure you’re good. Things are going to change after this.”

“You’re too kind,” he breathed. “You should focus on your group. You have a big fight ahead.”

Laughter bubbled in her throat. “Don’t worry, if I mother them any more there’ll be a mutiny. They practically kicked me out.”

He could definitely see that. She seemed like the kind to excessively care about everyone under her command; not a bad quality to have, but difficult to maintain.

Tristian finally shoved a piece of fruit into his mouth and began to chew. He… had to admit that he kind of liked it; it tasted sweet and juicy and exotic, something he had never eaten before. The juice was pleasant as well, fresh and sweet and strangely cold, leaving the faintest trace of a prickly sensation in his mouth.

“Good, isn’t it?” she asked, sunlight in her eyes. “Supposedly they grow here. Didn’t think this backwater could hold such treasures. Maybe this barony business won’t be so bad.”

“Don’t you actually want the title?” he wondered aloud; eyes narrowed just slightly in askance. The best rulers were often unwilling, thinking themselves undeserving of the title. It’s a shame she was only another target in Nyrissa’s game.  

The young cleric beside him tilted her head in contemplation. “My church sent me.”

His breath caught in his throat.

Maybe-… but… no, she was a cleric of Iomedae. But Iomedae _was_ an ally of his goddess. Maybe, just maybe – could he dare to hope? Had someone finally taken mercy on him?

“Try to get some more rest. This nightmare will be over soon, I think.”

_If only._

He smiled, swallowing the pain. “Be careful.”

Annaie firmly patted his shoulder (he forcefully suppressed the pained grunt) and moved up from the small stool, quickly disappearing downstairs. A moment later he heard her yelling across the scene, gathering up her excited party.

_Sarenrae, have mercy._

* * *

The Staglord fell to her hand. She showed little mercy, cutting through him and his bandits like a hot knife through butter. The ones who surrendered were promised a fair trial; the ones who ran were shot. She had sworn to bring order to these wild lands and obviously she intended to keep that oath, even in the face of blood and death.

That night he was sitting downstairs for the first time, enjoying a glass of wine Svetlana had kindly poured him. (Although enjoyment is relative, he supposed; the stuff is terribly bitter.) He’d gone to work on reading literature on curses, procured from the meager trade goods available at the Post, when suddenly loud banging and quite the commotion outside signaled the return of Annaie and her party. _Alive_.

His first reaction was to breathe deeply, heart hammering faster in relief. A sense of tension he hadn’t even noticed before suddenly seemed to leave his body, which left him only with a certain kind of light-headedness he couldn’t really place. How foolish of him. He shouldn’t get so attached.

The party passed through the door one by one, chattering, discarding various items in corners, peeling out of pieces of armor. Some of them immediately disappeared upstairs.

Annaie was last to come inside, presumably because she had been busy chatting with Oleg outside. Linzi immediately ordered food, likely to placate Amiri, who seemed in good spirits but was loudly calling for sustenance and ale.

The Aasimar discarded her satchel in the corner; she threw him a brief smile before turning to Svetlana, likely asking for something to eat. The two had a somewhat longer conversation, then she handed the woman something.

And then she turned around and moved to sit at his table.

Oh.

“Good evening,” she greeted, a tired smile on her lips. He returned her greeting with a friendly nod.

Only now did he notice the nasty cut running along her jawline; something had gotten her good, though she seemed otherwise in good spirits, and the wound had been dressed in some fashion.

“How have you fared?”

She threw a brief glance over her shoulder. “Everyone is alive. Except for the Staglord. He’s pretty dead.”

Tristian tried not to laugh at such a careless description of the act of killing. It was technically beneath him; all life was sacred and killing only a last resort.

 “Oh, don’t give me that look, I _know_. Be merciful to your enemies, be graceful in victory. Look, I just dug my way through miles of swamp road in the rain to kick a bandit lord out on his ass, and he had the guts to call me heaven’s whore _with my sword_ _in his face_. I’m all out of grace for today.”

… He also couldn’t blame her for not being particularly sorry.

 “You shall be forgiven, I think,” he noted dryly. “Just this once.”

“Very merciful of you,” she quipped back with the barest hint of a smirk. “Thanks much.”

His gaze kept returning to the wound she had sustained; he’d like to take care of it for her, if she’d let him.

“That cut on your face,” he noted, raising a brow as he spoke. “May I?”

She arched a brow in return but angled her cheek towards him, permitting him to reach out and brush over the injury with his fingertips. He mumbled a few words, energy began to course through his hand, streaming through his fingers and into her torn flesh. The cut started to mend, glowing and sizzling softly until there was nothing but a pink line.

Healing still came easily to him, despite the weakness of his mortal form. It was hard to forget the millennia of one’s own nature. Still, he frowned, feeling somewhat dissatisfied with the result. “Normally I would be able to heal it without scarring, but… my strength hasn’t quite returned yet, it seems.”

There’s a suspicious lack of response for a while and the uncomfortable feeling of the Aasimar’s intense eyes upon him. Then she suddenly burst into laughter; boisterous, loud and ringing laughter. “Man, I’m happy if my heals don’t end up looking like a botched stitch-job done by an amateur vivisectionist.”

“You’ll get better with practice,” he replied quickly, realizing with horror that he may have been a little… vain. She was still so young, she had probably barely left the temple. Healing was an art of its own, a skill that had to be cultivated like almost anything else in life. Many deva were naturally skilled at it, but many of them were also impossibly old. “It takes time.”

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and stared at him intensely, brows furred in contemplation. “You don’t seem much older than me. Have you spent all your waking time practicing healing, or are you just a natural genius?”

“A bit of both,” he answered with a sheepish smile; she didn’t seem suspicious as much as she seemed _curious_ , but he still didn’t like the direction of this conversation.

“Hmm.” Her stare didn’t ease, until suddenly she got up without warning. “I need to get out of these clothes, I’m soaked. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

And with that, she left.

Svetlana came over once in her brief absence, asking where the hero of the day had gone; Tristian faithfully relayed the message and returned to his literature at hand. The window of peaceful reading was clearly history, however – the mood was merry, alcohol was flowing freely, and the volume of conversation was only increasing as the evening progressed.

… And the Aasimar kept glancing at him though she had taken a seat with the half-orc and the half-elf mage; he caught her golden-eyed stare resting on him on several occasions. She was a strange one; her gaze was heavy and intense, carrying with it the fierce heart of the righteous, the soul of the Celestial Choirs. Somehow two spirits seemed to dwell within her; the playful and indolent, seeking adventure and fulfillment. But it was controlled by a dutiful hand and the chains of iron-clad self-restraint.

Did the pull of entirely different directions not rip her to pieces?

 It became distracting enough that after an hour or two he retreated to the room upstairs – loneliness be damned - and crawled into his bed, although the knowledge of the painful nightmares ahead made the thought of sleep heavy and bitter.  

* * *

The only sentence a bandit of any kind could expect was death by hanging. She’d known that when she offered them a fair trial.

It was the law. It was what was right.

Why then, Iomedae, why did it feel so wrong?

She had no pity for the man who called himself the Staglord. He may have suffered at some point in his life, but suffering was no justification for inflicting even _more_ of it, because then, where did it stop? Whose choices were really still their own choices?

Were they really in control of their own fate?

She always hated the philosophy lessons. They were the most exhausting of all because they had no answers. Only ever more questions. She didn’t need _more_ questions. That’s why fighting demons was easy – there was no moral conflict there. There was nothing redeemable about them. Monstrosities, plain and simple.

But this wasn’t the Worldwound and these souls she was damning weren’t demons. She could only hope for them that Pharasma was a fairer judge than life had been up until this point.

Tomorrow they’d be returning to Restov, but tonight her merry crew was free to drink and… be merry. Only Linzi had retreated into a corner, nose deep in a book, and their priest of Sarenrae had actually decided to _join_ them downstairs only to spend the entire evening reading strange literature about curses.

Or, well. He _tried_ to read. It was pretty obvious that he wasn’t getting anywhere. In fact, he hadn’t turned the page once in the past hour, and every now and then he looked up and stared her straight in the face.

He knew that she was watching him. It was putting him on edge.

Honestly, she just couldn’t help it. He was such a fascinating guy. Perceptive, but kind of… absent-minded. Passionate, but withdrawn. And _so_ pretty – which god had allowed mortals to be this handsome? Valerie thought she was the pretty one but _honestly_. Nothing could beat that guy. His eyes were strikingly golden, and now that he no longer looked like death incarnate, the soft pinkish hue on his cheeks gave him a much healthier glow. His brow creased just a little whenever he got frustrated with the text, and then he bit his cheek and looked up from the book, letting his gaze wander through the room for a while.

 _Why aren’t you going upstairs?_ She asked herself. _Why do you want to stay with us? Are you lonely?_

He certainly seemed happy with having only his goddess for company. The small statuette was never really far. Still, he watched the others with something in his eyes that almost looked like sorrow. She had the strange urge to comfort him, and she didn’t even know what for.

She also wondered if he was one for philosophical discussions.

“You’re going to kill the poor man.” Octavia was laughing beside her; she had obviously tasted a little too much wine at this point. It was more than understandable and Annaie wasn’t one to judge, though she rarely allowed herself to get drunk. It wasn’t… becoming of her kind.

“Eh. Jhod can revive him.”

Octavia sputtered, then burst into a fit of shrill laughter that deafened every person present within the establishment for a good few minutes.

It seemed Tristian took that as the cue to finally leave, as he slammed the book shut and hurried upstairs.

“I think _you_ just killed him, ‘Tav.”

That remark alone was enough to send the drunk wizard straight into another fit.

* * *

Tristian traveled with them to Restov, having been judged well enough by Jhod to be allowed back on the road. He reckoned that Annaie and her party were perfectly capable of making it back to the city on their own, but he was a little tired of being cooped up at the Trade Post and he figured he may be able to acquire some worthwhile literature in a proper city, not to mention having to replace some of his lost possessions. No offense to Oleg and his selection of wares, but their choice of literature was… somewhat limited.

Surprisingly… or perhaps unsurprisingly, considering the ease with which they had dispatched the bear in the past, Annaie’s group was a lot less chaotic on the road. Perhaps it was her natural disposition towards leadership, or perhaps it was a lifetime of training, but her team naturally fell into roles as they traveled; guarding the rear, watching out for traps, scouting ahead. She was clearly trained in group management, which was unsurprising considering her upbringing, but it was still a little bamboozling how she instantly absorbed his presence into the group dynamics, making room and adjusting the plan around the changed circumstances. Come night he was assigned to healing minor injuries and other physical ailments, as it became clear quite quickly that he was the best healer of the group – Annaie was a cleric, but evidently more the mace-to-the-face kind. The atmosphere within the camp was remarkably similar to the evenings at the Trade Post, safe for the fact that everyone was a little quieter and vastly less inebriated.

He found himself on the first guard shift together with the Aasimar, who settled against a tree with her small round shield beside her and her worn longsword laid across her lap. She seemed alert but fairly exhausted. Tristian sat down against a fallen log not far from her, close enough to have a conversation if they wanted to.

After a few hours, the fire they had set for dinner finally went out. He was starting to strain is mortal eyesight against the darkness when a nearly blinding light suddenly flashed in his peripheral, lighting up the camp and the surrounding area. There was cursing, and then the striking light dimmed to a barely visible illumination.

“For the love of-… stupid halo.”

Obviously, she did not have the best control over her Celestial abilities.

He shuffled a little closer until he could see her face through the dim light of the shining ring. It was barely bright enough to light up a tiny sphere around her, more a pale imitation of true luminance.

“Sorry, am afraid I can only offer living torch or total blindness mode tonight.” Her voice was carried by distinct frustration, as well as the sense that this was a somewhat regular occurrence.

He chuckled lightly. “Don’t you have darkvision anyway?”

“Technically,” she mumbled. “I still feel more comfortable with a little light. But it’s too bright like that… the others can’t sleep and whoever’s out there will think we set up a buffet for them.”

“I don’t know… would you walk towards a blinding light in the dark?” he mused. “I don’t think I would.”

“ _I_ would. But I’m here to kill all things evil and most people are not, so you may have a point.”

At that, Tristian chuckled half-heartedly. Killing all things evil… She obviously had learned a quite heavy-handed approach towards cleansing the world of its pain.

“The first to enter battle, the last to leave it, wasn’t it?” he mumbled, sifting through his recollections of her church.

“Correct. Although we’re discouraged from denying a sacrifice willingly given. Just means I have to sacrifice myself faster, though.”

How easily she spoke of her own death. It was a rare sight indeed, and he wasn’t sure whether to be terrified or impressed. Technically she was his enemy, after all. He decided to go with impressed for the moment; she was his travel companion for the time being and on his side for the battles to come at least. The future was still some ways off… and who knew what sorts of miracles would follow her on his way.

Tristian couldn’t dare to hope, but a part of him wished to so dearly. He hadn’t tasted hope in so long…

Her attitude brought forth memories of a different sort of divine warrior. Priests – clerics among them – were a little more focused on the spiritual side of things, but her willingness to dive head-first into battle…

“You sound like a Paladin,” he noted.

Her golden eyes lit up for a brief moment. “Almost became one.”  He found there was little mirth in her voice; perhaps even some sorrow. History, not a favored one, it seemed.

“Why didn’t you?”

Her eyes fell shut. The clearing almost seemed darker without the shining specks of gold. “Long story.”

Tristian arched a brow and took a good look around the camp. The others were asleep and the night was young, and barring unusual circumstances, they wouldn’t have much to do until the end of their shift. “I think we have time.”

The Aasimar’s golden eyes fluttered back open; she looked at him long and hard. Then she crossed her arms and slid further down against the tree. “Fine, but I want a story from you in return.”

He almost laughed. “Bargaining for _stories_?”

“You’re interesting.” Golden eyes narrowed in the dark. “I’d like to know you better.”

Oh. There was… something in her voice. A tone that went beyond curiosity, one that he couldn’t quite… he couldn’t place it. But the sentiment itself seemed innocent enough. He tilted his head, looking at her for a good while.

“I think you’re interesting as well,” he replied thoughtfully. “A story for a story it is, then.”

_A story for a lie, Tristian._

For a brief moment, her eyes seemed to light up and the halo pulsed a little brighter around her head. She didn’t seem to notice. How… interesting a reaction. Almost endearing. Not something he had seen before.

“Excellent!” She clapped her hands only to flinch a second later, realizing just how loud the noise had been. Her gaze darted across the camp for a moment, but no one seemed to have woken up from her little blunder. “Damnit. Anyway, I’ll start.”

Good, that way he’d have some time to come up with a story for her. And bury his shame. 

_You bastard liar._

“What if I told you that I wanted to become an Inquisitor?” she said, tilting her head playfully.

The only response he could offer was an arched brow. She didn’t seem like the type. At all. “I’d ask you why I suppose?”

“Good question! My best friend at the temple was a Tiefling girl. She was amazing at finding out everyone’s secrets. She could even find out things people didn’t actually know themselves. And she can smell the touch of extraplanars. Literally smell it, apparently.”

He didn’t even know where to start here. A Tiefling growing up in a temple of Iomedae, said Tiefling befriending an Aasimar or the fact that the girl clearly had extensive tracking abilities some deva would find themselves in envy of.

“When we were kids we… had these dreams of going on adventures together. Fighting evil. Saving all the princesses. Inquisitors often travel, it would’ve worked out great.”

That… was strangely pure. The Aasimar and Tiefling duo on a great mission – he could almost picture it. Nearly brought a smile to his face. It had remained a dream, which ended up killing the smile.

“Obviously you’re not an Inquisitor though, so something about your plan didn’t quite work out.”

She sighed. “No. I liked hitting things with holy fury more than I liked asking questions, I’m afraid. I mean- both are crucial to being an Inquisitor, but the perceptive side of me is… a bit underdeveloped.”

She was refreshingly honest about her disposition towards divine violence… if maybe a little too casual about it. And he yet had to encounter this lack of willingness to ask questions; she seemed rather curious to him.

“My friend got picked up for training, but they had… _bigger_ plans for me.” Her hand waved dismissively. “Hitting bigger things, mostly. With great prejudice.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Neither of you had much of a choice, I take it.”

“No. We grew up with the church, we might as well be their property. They had full control of our education and we were sent where our skills matched best. She was good at sniffing out the wicked, so she was trained to do just that. I was meant to be a Paladin and they were _quite_ certain that was my calling.”

Both his brows arched up a good bit. “But you’re also not a Paladin right now.”

Small, choked laughter came from her throat. “How perceptive! I am, in fact, not a Paladin. You see, I liked giving my educators a lot of trouble. Educators don’t like trouble. Paladins _especially_ don’t like trouble. Or disobedience.” 

A troublemaker? She didn’t quite seem like it.

“Did you do that deliberately?”

She shrugged, eyes dull in the darkness. “Sometimes. Usually not though. Just got angry a lot.”

There were things she wasn’t telling him. A lot of things from the sound of it, things that were very personal. Obviously none of that was really his business, but he couldn’t deny a certain amount of curiosity. He hadn’t lied when he told her that he found her interesting, for better or for worse.

“They eventually kicked me out of their hall. Got taken back in by the priest who also saved my Tiefling friend and finished my education as a Cleric. Now I’m a Cleric who wanted to be an Inquisitor and was trained as a Paladin.”

“That was kind of him,” he muttered. The sentiment was sincere; perhaps the most sincere he had been with her until this point. Something flashed in her eyes for a brief moment, disappearing before he could really take note of it. Pain? Sorrow? If only he still had his Celestial senses.

“Yes. It was.” The somewhat merry mood had died, gone out like the fire which had warmed them. Her golden eyes sought to hold his gaze in the dark, but the light of her halo seemed to have dimmed further, leaving him uncomfortably blind.

Something was hurting her. His nature almost urged him to reach out, touch her shoulder – but he was no deva on a mission to aid mortals right now. He was just a priest of Sarenrae sitting somewhere in the dark, guarding a camp full of snoring adventurers.

Still… he at least had to ask. “Are you alright?”

Her lips twitched, corners of her mouth forming an almost-smile. “I’m fine, but thanks for asking. Seems like you’re a lot more perceptive than I am.” Something changed in her demeanor; she sat up a bit, arms still crossed. He knew this gaze from when she was making tactical decisions. “I think I’ll have you on guard duty more often in the future.”

Something slowly dawned on him. “You don’t normally take guard duty, do you.”

She laughed. “No. I’m as perceptive as a corpse. A drunk cyclops could probably still surprise me. Just wanted to know how well you’d do.”

That was… almost disappointing. He likely wouldn’t be having these night-time conversations with her in the future.

_Tristian, what are you doing? You can’t get this attached._

“Glad to hear I can be of use to you,” he responded, pointedly ignoring his own thoughts piercing his skull. After a moment of deliberation, he decided to add, “you’re a good leader. You’ll do a fine job as a baroness.”

She smiled in full; a real, dazzling smile, teeth and all. Her entire face seemed to light up along with the halo behind her, throwing a bright shine on her hair. “Thank you. I’d be honored to have you by my side in the future, Tristian.”

“I…”

_Sweet Everlight, what **is** that-_

His cheeks felt so _hot_ , it was like he had suddenly developed a fever. A _really_ bad fever. Burning up his face, filling his ears with the rush of blood.

“I’ll do my best,” he muttered meekly, gazing stubbornly at his hands.

Her smile didn’t lessen, it actually seemed to be growing wider. Good gods. What was making her so happy? What was making _him_ so happy?

“Didn’t… didn’t you want to hear a story from me?” He had to get the topic somewhere else somehow before he spontaneously combusted.

“Yes!” She grinned, once again clapping her hands. “You got one?”

 He bit the inside of his cheek; he’d have to lie to her again and that just felt _so_ wrong. It felt so much worse somehow than it did before. It shouldn’t; this wasn’t any worse than anything he’d done before, and yet…

He felt undeserving of her smile.

“I… I wouldn’t know what to tell you. My life seems so uninteresting to me.”

Oh, why did he get himself into this… He could just have said no in the first place.

She tilted her head, a hint of curiosity shining in her eyes. “How did you become a priest?”

Oh, _oh_ , maybe he could do this without having to lie too much-

_How low you’ve fallen._

“All my life, I just knew that this is what I should be,” he spoke, trying to summon the serenity that he’d felt in his Lady’s service. “I suppose you could say I was born into it.”

She arched a brow. “Were you given to the temple as a baby? Or were your parents priests?”

The corners of his mouth twitched. _In a way,_ he thought to himself bitterly, not daring to look her in the eye while he spoke his lies, lest _her_ goddess would end up igniting him on the spot for his crimes.

“My mother was,” he said. Somehow he spun a story from that; a story of his temple life, cobbled together from memories of his early days as a deva and knowledge of actual temples. The questions she asked ironically helped him solidify these lies by giving his story direction; the way her eyes lit up when he told her something she recognized from her own life was both beautiful and heartbreaking. Beautiful because she had eyes like the sun, heartbreaking because the understanding she sought wasn’t real.

He was glad when their guard shift ended. She had gone over to asking him questions about his faith rather than his life which he was vastly more willing and happy to answer and answer _truthfully_ at that, but his mood was permanently soured for the night, and by the end, he had tired terribly and was ready to collapse into his bedroll.

* * *

At the banquet in Restov, his resolve finally broke. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that it shattered, falling into a thousand tiny pieces at his feet. He observed her mingle with the high and mighty, moving between them with natural grace, speaking with a silver tongue. Gone was the casual posture, the cursing, the hint of an ironic smile. Instead, she was perfectly calm, composed and imposing. If he hadn’t seen her lose control of her very own halo last night, he’d dismiss such stories as mere slander meant to tarnish her grace.

And yet here she was, looking perfectly regal despite it.

He couldn’t do it. It dawned on him like heavy rain, drenching him within seconds, drawing all the warmth from his skin. It poisoned the air in his lungs, grasped his heart like a cold hand, blocked his throat. It felt like drowning.

_He couldn’t do it._

Not her. He couldn’t tear her down. Not like this, not ever, not- It wasn’t _right_.

And if that wasn’t bad enough- he saw the real soul of hers through the composed mask, shining through here and there; concealed smiles, winking at her companions, laughing at whispered jokes. Cracking jokes herself. She even came over when she saw his pale face, asking if he was alright, and he placated her with a lie of having overexerted himself a little on the journey.

She was so _real_. So kind. Truly touched by Heaven.

_Sarenrae, why must I do these things to return to you?_

Nyrissa. It was her fault, _it was all her fault_ \- to trap him here, to force such evil on him, to dare to defile the kindness of a soul so young and noble. Would he just never feel her grace again? Was he damned to forever walk Golarion as a mortal soul, as- as- as _a bitter nymph’s loyal pet?_

Never in his life had he come this close to feeling something akin to hate – and never had he come so close to just running up to another soul, blurting out all his pain, spilling all his sins, offering all his knowledge. Exposing Nyrissa, tearing down the nymph and her vile plans. Reveal the bloom, the curse, the loss of his wings.

Reveal her true enemy, the _true_ nightmare yet to come.

She walked past him so many times that evening, he’d only have to reach out to her shoulder, pull her aside. Ask for a moment of her time. So many people did, it wouldn’t even stand out.

But Nyrissa had torn down nearly a thousand kingdoms in her time. It was foolish to think that this one would be different, divine grace or not. And then what – would he just never return to her light? Would Nyrissa rip his soul from his body and damn him to Pharasma’s judgment?

The thought froze him in place each and every time, staying his hand before he could reach out to her and come clean. Knowledge of Nyrissa’s plans hadn’t saved any of the other kings and queens. Why would it save _her_? What seemed to make her so special that he nearly thought to give up his only chance at returning home?

In the middle of the banquet, he wanted to break down and cry. Sob into his hands, fold his lost wings around himself and drown in his misery. There was no light to guide him out of this darkness.

… But if he couldn’t openly defy Nyrissa, he could at least aid Annaie in its stead. Even if he couldn’t reveal himself, he could at least subtly guide her along the way. She trusted him. She sought his advice. Disgusting as it felt, he could at least make use of that.

And if, by some divine miracle, she made it to the end… perhaps he would finally be able to rip his wings back from Nyrissa’s cursed hands.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Tristian. But he's an idiot. Just saying.  
> Fun fact, Annaie started out as a Lawful Good Inquisitor but I was unhappy with the class after awhile, so I respecced her with the magic of modding. I was going to turn her into a Paladin, but my decisions over the course of the game had switched her from Lawful Good to Neutral Good and that wasn't a change I was willing to undo, so I went for a Cleric instead of a Paladin and just decided to make this little weirdness part of her story


	2. The Hound and the Skylark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest love and respect to whoever read this far. I know my work isn't the best out there, I just had to get a lot off my chest

 “I want you to become my Councilor.”

It was his kindness she valued most, but Tristian also had a way with words. It was clear to anyone with half a brain that he was perceptive _and_ persuasive, capable of talking people in and out of opinions with astonishing ease. She wasn’t sure if the priest was quite aware of that skill of his, but she was more than eager to make use of it either way. This land was cruel and corrupted, but it needed kindness as much as it needed order, especially from its future Councilor.

From the startled look he gave her she concluded that he hadn’t quite _expected_ that, but it was fine all the same. She wasn’t bad at convincing people either, after all. To her pleasant surprise, however, his shock seemed to settle rather quickly; he folded his hands and graced her with his beautiful smile.  “If you believe that I have the necessary skills, I would be honored to serve you, Annaie. I have never held such a position, however.”

She waved dismissively. “Congratulations, that makes two of us. Quite the pair we are.” After a moment of silence, she added, “seriously, I’m confident you’ll figure it out. I doubt any of us really know what we’re doing here.”

“Fair point.” He gave her a sort of half-bow, tilting forward ever so slightly. “Very well, then. Although I wish to know why you’d chose me of all people.”

It was a fair question, of course. Tristian was a priest, part of a profession that spent a good amount of time communicating and guiding people through whatever problems they faced during their mortal life. Still, the seat of the Councilor was a remarkably worldly position. Annaie hailed from a Theocracy - for her, seeing members of the Clerical body in positions of power was not unusual, but this was not a circumstance most of Golarion was necessarily used to.  

She tilted her head, pondering her response. “I think it’s not a secret that you’re vastly more… diplomatic than me, for starters. I can talk people into doing things, but at the end of the day, I see every problem as a nail. I only have so much patience at my disposal, while you seem to have an endless amount of it. You also happen to be very pretty, so people are going to trust you.” She finished with a wink and a crooked grin.

He blinked owlishly at her for what felt like a good minute, then the meaning of her words seemed to sink in all at once and his cheeks took on a reddish hue. Whenever he blushed, it stood out strongly against his extremely pale skin and fair hair.

“I, uhm. Thank you. I will do my best,” he quickly muttered in response, suddenly seeking to look anywhere except her face.

“Then I’m sure we’re in good hands.”

Should she feel bad for enjoying the flustered look on his face? It was… just a cute look. He was sweet. Unnaturally sweet. It would be a crime not to push him to be at his best at all times.  

Or maybe she was just trying to justify her silly obsession with this man. Apparently she hadn’t left her teenage years behind yet after all.

 

* * *

 

_“Once, a girl told me my eyes light up her world. I told her the light of Sarenrae would light up her soul. She seemed… disappointed…”_

_“… Are you serious?"_

 

* * *

 

To think that he had just finished his half-baked story of the curse of Bald Hilltop, and already she was heaping upon him the honor of being her Councilor. And piling compliments on him for… something. He’d known that she trusted him, but to lay the fate of her future people in his hands so readily… did he seem so trustworthy, or was she simply too trusting? He was so deep within this web of lies that he could no longer tell. But if such trust indeed made her vulnerable, then he would work to protect her from lies. If not his own, then at least those of everyone else. Without realizing it, she had given him the tools to undo some of the damage his deeds would undoubtedly cause in the future.

He vowed to do his new job diligently for he would not refuse the chance to do some genuine good, even if he was woefully unprepared for such a task. His life had been spent fighting great battles and answering the prayers of mortals, but he could truthfully say that he had never done any administrative tasks in his long immortal life. There was a lot of bureaucracy in Heaven, but he did not _hail_ from Heaven, much as he liked to praise its grace. (And most mortals seemed to toss all the good-aligned outer planes into one big category labeled “Heaven” anyway.) There was beauty in the order and intricate systems that governed Heaven and he often saw it reflected in her. Flashes of another world come and gone.

Well. Now he was going to get a taste of that world, since he had apparently been named Councilor.

There’s a first time for everything, as they say. He would do a good job. He _had_ to. He could not afford to disappoint her.

 _At least not yet_ , a voice in the back of his mind whispered. It was an angry voice, locked away along with all the thoughts he never allowed himself to think, and back behind that lock it would go, for he could not permit himself to grow weak now of all times. Now, when he could finally help someone in need, for the first time in… forever.

It really did feel like forever, and he had seen eternity come and go.

* * *

 

_“An ambassadorial delegation will be arriving from Pitax in two days. Hopefully. If they manage to find the way. I don’t have a Treasurer yet because no one seems to be insane enough to want the position, so you, my dear Octavia, and you, fair Tristian, shall advise me and make sure I do not commit a diplomatic faux pas during my first major interaction with another River Kingdom._

 

* * *

 

“If you have criticism to offer, then that is fair, but I would prefer if you-“

“With all due respect, your _Grace_ , your barony is a disaster. You have no roads to speak of, communication is non-existent, wares are lost not only to the elements with shocking regularity but to rogue wildlife and pure _banditry_. If you have any ambitions of trading with us, just fixing one of these issues wouldn’t get you anywhere _near_ a deal.”

Stefano Mosconi was his name. A nobleman from Pitax who had arrived with little warning and therefore scarcely left them any time to prepare. Tristian had managed to somehow get the main square to look somewhat presentable by charming the few locals who had braved the wilderness of the Stolen Lands into helping him clean up.

They had little means, but those who had come here had hope in the future and trust in their Baroness. It was an inspiring sight.

The nobleman’s rant had reached a peak in superfluousness a good hour ago, a fact that most of the present speakers, even the ones on the _other_ end of the table, were keenly aware of. This barony had existed for barely a few months at this point and already its neighbors were eager to degrade it. Of course the roads were going to be a disaster; they had scarcely had time to build them. Barely anyone lived in this place safe for the brave few who dared to defy the reign of Nyrissa’s curse. Why would they have _roads_?

“Yes, our barony is not too impressive as of now, but things will change. We have a long road ahead of us,” Tristian decided to reinsert himself into the conversation that had forgotten his existence a long time ago, if only for the sake of maintain some civility.  

He was, as Annaie liked to say, ‘the patient one’ in this, and he was beginning to find himself… annoyed. There were better things for him to do, like paperwork. Not that he enjoyed doing paperwork, but there was a surprising amount of it, it had to be done and the six hours he had spent in this farce of a negotiation…

Ah, it was a pity. Time had become such a commodity all of a sudden, he was beginning to understand the mortal obsession with it. Someone always wanted some of his; he had scarcely found himself a man so wanted in his long life.

“The likelihood of anything coming out of this backwater is-“

“Gentlemen, I believe this meeting has run its course,” their Baroness interrupted with a tired, strained smile. Tristian knew, he just _knew_ that she was scraping up the last shreds of her shattered will to conduct diplomacy for this measured response, and if they didn’t-

“Just coming here was a waste of time, your Grace. I could’ve-“

_Oh dear Sarenrae…_

“You could have done us all a favor and not wasted my time with your hours of unfocused rambling,” Annaie finally snapped at Stefano. Tristian could feel his heart sink; they had sought to prevent exactly this. “I tire of listening to you. Do you have anything to add that is not a long expired cliché of a nobleman?”

Silent ‘ooh’s passed through the room. Scandalized looks were exchanged. Damnation.

He would’ve interrupted, but there was nothing he could do that wouldn’t further embarrass their Baroness.

“Spoken like a true temple child, sheltered and ignorant. Dumped in an uncivilized wasteland by her own church, no less! Whose feet did you step on to end up in this place, oh holy one?”

She leaped up from her chair so fast that her cup went flying off the table, along with various documents no one had looked at for the past two hours anyway. Before anyone could interrupt, she had already begun to make her way to the door.

The present nobles had the good sense to look at least somewhat scandalized, although the moment was brief and pretentious, and no one _really_ looked surprised. If it wouldn’t serve to create a wholly wrong impression, Tristian would’ve face-palmed. Octavia… didn’t have as much restraint.

“I could’ve spent all these hours doing literally anything else to improve the state of my barony-“

The large winged door fell shut behind her, cutting off the rest of her furious ranting. For a moment, total silence reigned in the chamber… then chaotic chatter erupted seemingly all at once, mixed with a healthy dose of aristocratic indignation.

Tristian saw himself in the difficult position of calming the mood, although he’d much rather follow their Baroness and soothe _her_. The barony could, for the moment, live without good relations with Pitax, but it definitely couldn’t live without her.

It took him another hour to get out of the chamber in a _polite_ fashion, at which point he was ready and willing to be… annoyed? Mild annoyance was seemingly all he was capable of in this situation, certainly not the unbridled fury that she seemed to experience whenever things didn’t go her way.

They definitely _hadn’t_ right now, and he surprisingly struggled with tracking her down. An hour of running around the fort only yielded the various stories of people having spotted the Baroness in varying stages of… visible annoyance.  

He found her, at last, in perhaps the most mundane place. Her own quarters.

It was only upon knocking there as a last resort that he realized this, feeling a little stupid all the while, and as he was told to ‘fuck off or else’ through the closed door, he was faced with making a rather difficult decision.

Fortunately, Tristian was known for always making the obnoxious choice.

“Annaie?” he called through the door. A moment of silence, then the heavy piece of wood slowly creaked open, revealing first her gloomy face, then the rest of her - looking sad and tired rather than furious and mad.

“Thought you were someone annoying,” she stated flatly. “If you’re going to tell me the results of my fuckup, I don’t want to hear about that before tomorrow.”

The somber tone of hers was concerning. And somewhat saddening, for her demeanor was hardly as certain as her words suggested and spoke of a deeply troubled mind.

“I’m not.”

Her gaze rested on him for a few uncomfortable seconds, then she stepped back and gestured for him to enter.

Oh. Not something he had expected. Alright.

To be frank, he had never been to her chambers before, so he couldn’t deny a certain level of curiosity. The place was well-furnished, but kept in simple tastes; a wide bed, a desk in the corner, a wardrobe and a scarcely decorated end table to fill some of the empty space, and a shelf with important personal belongings. A small shrine to her goddess had an entire corner dedicated to it and was perhaps the most decorated place in the room.

Her faith was such a curious thing that continued to show itself in surprising ways, but it was a topic for another day.

There was also a corner very clearly dedicated to reading, with a pair of armchairs, a small table, and a large shelf nearly bursting with books. A reader... interesting.

The scent of incense had spread through the entire chamber and quickly hit his sensitive nose with heavy fumes, while a thin mat had been laid out on the tiled floor. She’d been meditating, he realized then; likely trying to calm her strained nerves.

She looked strangely small in here, out of her armor, arms crossed defensively, wearing that formal tunic of blue and silver she had told him the day before she hated.

More than anything, she didn’t look like she wanted to be here.

“Welcome to my domain,” the Baroness offered and spread her arms wide in a mockingly inviting gesture. “It’s about as pretty as the rest of it. I can order tea though. Bet Pitax doesn’t have bitter beverage so fine.”

How to describe the picture he was faced with?

Angry, but bitterly so. Wishing to do good, but finding herself unable, and hampered by the manifestations of what she considered mortal evil. Wanting to treat every problem as a nail with herself as the hammer.

 “You can’t wipe Pitax off the map.”

Well, that may have come out a little off the mark.

She stared at him for a long moment, head tilting further and further to the side until she arched her brows in one immediate motion and opened her mouth to speak. “Is there something in my words I am not aware of that implies such?”  

“Not directly, no.” This was not going to be an easy conversation, but he had maneuvered himself into it and supporting people was what he enjoyed doing most. These thoughts in mind, he stepped a little closer and folded his hands in a contemplative gesture. “I don’t mean to insult, but you seem-“

“Emotional?”

“A little blunt, but yes.”

She snorted. “Guess why I got kicked out of a Paladin Order.”

With what he knew of the more rigid ones, it wasn’t really surprising; what _was_ surprising was her continued adherence to a deity that didn’t seem to suit her, as well as the continued willingness of Iomedae to support her.

Not the right words for the situation, but a matter to investigate nonetheless.

“It wasn’t your calling. I see nothing wrong with that.”

Something in her eyes softened in response to his words, like a sharp edge growing dull.

_The right words to soothe._

“You say that with such confidence.” Her tongue spoke of suspicion, but the defensive tone had faded into the background, dying like the last embers of a once great fire.

“I do. I have… seen people like you, when I still lived at the temple. You’re very passionate. It’s a boon, but also a source of constant struggle. Your wish to succeed makes you impatient.”

For an impossibly long moment, the heavy stare of her intense eyes rested on him like the blade of a sword, threatening to pierce him if he made just one wrong move.

They were pretty. Such pretty eyes… Despite the intensity and the fierceness, or perhaps because of them. It was hard to tell.

She closed them and released a heavy sigh. “All my life, my impatience was my foil. My fatal flaw.” A bitter snort followed. “My emotions in general, really.”

 “But you are aware of it.”

How troubling were these things to her, to hide them so dearly? And how often did she fail in her own eyes?

“I’d argue that makes it worse. People who are not aware of their flaws can at least be excused with some level of ignorance. I am aware of my shortcomings and _still_ regularly fail to correct them.”

His gaze fell on her meditation setup for a brief moment. “You try. Yes, you struggle, but never degrade the meaning of an honest attempt.”

Something in his words was at the very least getting to her. She cast her gaze to the ground, crossed her arms and pulled up her shoulders. “Trying is well and good, but it doesn’t fix what I broke out there.”

A warm, encouraging smile graced his lips. “You have people to rely on. Your friends, your servants. Your subjects, even. I saw it. They believe in you.”

A spark lit up her vibrant eyes. She looked at him with renewed warmth, and yet its origins he could not trace. “And what about you?”

Oh… Well.

If she knew even just a little more, she’d know not to rely on him, and yet… he wanted her to. A strangely selfish echo of a wish of a desire, so flawed and yet so urgent. If he could be a patient guide for her, an anchor on the stormy seas…

“I’m more than happy to lend you my patience where yours might fail.”

A faint smile was all he could give her, yet he could sense that she was… disappointed, in a way. As if she had expected more. Then whatever he’d seen suddenly disappeared and her eyes hardened.

Still, she nodded. “Thank you.” Averting her gaze, she visibly sought to disengage. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”  

“Of course. It was a pleasure.”

Annaie arched a brow but said nothing in return.

He excused himself with a quick bow and a faint smile and left her chambers, but the memory of the encounter would continue to follow him for days to come. In his weakness under Nyrissa’s curse, he had seen only the divine servant in her, but in doing so he had done her a disservice.  

There was one thing he hadn’t been wrong about, from the start. Her heart carried a passion within that could be sent to burn in many directions depending on who and what fanned it. Many sought that flame.

He could only hope the Stolen Lands wouldn’t kill it.

* * *

The Inheritor was a scarcely worshipped deity in these lands, he found; he sometimes wondered if she felt alone. Sarenrae wasn’t common either, but people respected his Lady’s name enough for him to feel content. He hoped to someday see the colorful kites of the Sunwrought Festival fill the summer skies and he had plainly told her so, but the decisions that could cause such developments weren’t his to make. Annaie had already done her best to bring the faith of Lady Valor to her own people and to some extent it seemed to be working, with small shrines popping up here and there, but bringing one deity to the people was already a good amount of work. Her name was invoked more often, he felt, and people spoke of justice and valor when they spoke of their Baroness. It seemed as if their fair Lady could not be mentioned without the name of her goddess following, if not in the same breath, then at least in the next. Yet strangely Annaie’s relationship with her faith itself was an enigma to him.

Not because she spoke of it, no. Her faith was the one thing she almost _never_ spoke of, despite all the questions she liked to launch at him about his own beliefs. She sought to know how other people felt, but beyond her endeavors to live according to her creed, she almost never seemed to express her own faith in words, although she fought to have it spread among her people. Would he not see her pray every morning and cast spells in and out of battle, he’d wonder about the strength of it indeed.

Seeing a Cleric of all things having so little words for their own faith was a curious thing. He mused about this as he did every morning when he passed her on his rounds; they’d somehow accidentally fallen into a comfortable routine of sorts. He liked going on morning walks when the day was still fresh, to enjoy the rays of the sun while they were still young and the air yet cool and unspent. Every such morning he’d pass her without fail, kneeling in front of her favored place of worship in deep meditation. She was a creature of strict rules and routine, and yet she could be so brash and brazen…

The young woman did not look up as he approached; he cared not to disturb his fellow servant of the divine during prayer and thus was usually content to simply walk past. They’d always have another chance to speak later if there was need. But she wasn’t _praying_. The halo that framed her head was brightest as she meditated, and it had already faded to being nothing but a dim light.

No, she was staring - almost despondently, he thought - at her offering, hands lying listlessly in her lap. Seeing her like this, she seemed lost. Out of place. On most days she was brave and forward, running first into battles of any kind, words or weapons, it mattered little. But here in front of this shrine to her deity, she was vulnerable and young. Young and… defiant.

Defiance didn’t seem to suit her, and yet it did. It made little sense in his mind. He wondered - looking at her and finding this picture so out of place - if he was once again beginning to forget that she was mortal.

Mortals so rarely made sense. So why should she?  

“Good morning, Councilor,” Annaie greeted him, quickly startling him out of his morning serenity. Her voice was uncharacteristically subdued; the marks on her face still glowed faintly, but just like her halo the shine was weak. He nodded a greeting and offered her a faint smile, which seemed to pass by unnoticed, as she had already returned to being deep in thought. Another moment went in silence, then she got up, wiped the dust off her armored coat and finally clapped the dirt off her hands. “My knees are killing me.”

Unsurprising, considering she spent an hour doing this every single day, but the timing of her remark still somehow coaxed a smile out of him. “Need a spell?” he offered warmly, though he didn’t expect her to take him up on it.

A dismissive snort followed. “If I want to get smacked straight out of Heaven by my goddess once I die, sure. I’m afraid discipline is part of the package.”

Oh, he really had to stop imagining the things she said, someday he’d laugh at something truly inappropriate.

 “May I propose an alternative then?” he smiled at her as she tilted her head in response. “Come walk with me, it may help ease the stiffness.”

A grin parted her lips. “I like the sound of that. I don’t know when I last just _walked_ somewhere without purpose.”

“About time, then,”  he replied with a smile of his own.

The barony had consumed much of their time as of late, so he could relate to an extent. People always wanted the time of their Baroness, and he and the other advisors fought to let only the most urgent of matters get to her. Unfortunately, those still ended up being _a lot_ most of the time.

Work just never ended for them; if they didn’t make time for themselves, they’d simply never have any. And so they walked. The day was young, but many were already up and about. Tristian enjoyed the enthusiasm of the early day that people brought with them when they left their homes, for it felt like a fresh start every single day.

Annaie seemed… vastly less enthusiastic about mornings.

“You’re not one for the early day?” he mused, drawing her unfocused gaze.

“I wish I could claim otherwise, but it takes me a long time to… wake up? I wonder how you do it.”

“I don’t think it’s a conscious effort. I just feel refreshed in the mornings.”

She hummed. “Must come with being a Sarenite.”

Ah, if only it was that simple. He had seen a good amount of evidence to the contrary. Still, he chuckled lightly. “No, I fear faith in the Dawnflower is not a cure to lethargy. ”

“Then, I suppose, you simply are blessed,” she replied wryly; the humor was plain in her voice.  “Blessed with the great power of waking up early in the day. Truly a boon of the divine. I, meanwhile, am blessed with a glowing circle around my head.”

Humor may color her voice, but defiance fueled the ferocity in her eyes. It was an art of its own to lie while being genuine, perhaps the worst of all, but he could not judge her. He only wondered why she was hiding all the time. Why, and from what.

He could no longer hold it in. He needed to know _why_. Why did she walk this path, if she loathed it so?

“Annaie, may I ask you something?”

As if she had already guessed the intention, the fire in her golden eyes dimmed. “Yes?”

“Please do not misinterpret, I ask you this because I wish to understand, not to judge you. Your faith confuses me.” She barked a mirthless and curt laugh, but he continued. “At times – if you ever speak of it - you speak of it so bitterly, yet you fight to uphold its ideals. You labor to spread it among your people, yet you seem to hold your fellows in contempt. Your goddess grants you her power, yet you… seem to question it.”

Sarenrae was his light, his love. Serenity was the true boon she granted him, the blessing of her divine grace. He could not imagine anything less than utter devotion to the ideas she represented.

How could it be so different for her? _Was_ it different? Did she perhaps just express herself through other means? Annaie could be so… ironic at times, like an armor wrapped around herself, but there were sincerity and kindness and love for her friends underneath.

“I’m guessing my comment about my halo isn’t what spawned this,” she remarked. “No, don’t reply to that. It’s a difficult topic, I’m not sure I myself understand it, Tristian.”

 He offered her a sympathetic smile. “Maybe I could help, then? Confide in me.”

Something in her demeanor changed, and he couldn’t tell what it was. Fear? Insecurity?

“I’d rather not speak of it.”

It was her choice, of course, and not his place to push her – but he worried. _Why_ it worried him so, he could not tell, but he wished she would confide in him like she seemed to confide in Octavia or Linzi. Her behavior towards him seemed to be… different, and he was beginning to wonder about its cause.

“Very well, then. I respect your wishes,” he replied ruefully.

* * *

 Of _course_ he would. Tristian was always kind, always respectful. He could display a surprising sense of humor at times but at his core the essence of his being seemed to be to offend as little as possible while caring as much as his soul could bear. At some point it _had_ to burst, no creature could bear this much compassion without shattering under its weight.

It was a feat she would think impossible, and yet wherever they went, he asked her to offer kindness to even the lowest of creatures. All her life she had been taught that sometimes, the potential results simply _weren’t worth the effort_ , and yet he tried anyway, time and time again.

How could he never tire of it?  

It meant little in this conversation, but whenever they spoke, she couldn’t help but wonder. Was he aware of the futility? Did he simply not care? The world had to have disappointed his endless optimism at least _once_.

If it were anyone else, she likely would’ve scoffed at such… naivety. Tristian though, he somehow made a glaring weakness his strength. It made no sense.

But could she tell him that watching him just… being himself was causing her to question her own convictions? No, she couldn’t. The cracks in her armor weren’t new, far from it, but it didn’t have to be anyone else’s business that they were in the process of ripping open so wide a dragon could’ve fit through.

She sighed and ran a hand through her short hair. Leave it to a priest to look sad that he didn’t get to play moral support.

“You’re a kind soul, Tristian, but you assume too many burdens. You don’t need mine on top of yours.”

Her response almost seemed to confuse him; a deep crease etched into his forehead as he tilted his head ever so slightly. “I don’t consider it a burden to listen to your struggles.”

She’d already shown so much of her weakness to him, and yet he seemed to crave ever more of it. Was it simply in his nature to offer everyone out there a shoulder in need, or did he merely consider her particularly in need of it?

 Perhaps it was her own fault. She’d sent a plethora of mixed signals his way at this point, tip-toeing closer only to change her mind at the last second and dash the other way. It wasn’t really fair to him, was it?

“Imagine everyone always came to you with their problems,” she replied. “You’d end up so overwhelmed that you wouldn’t be able to take care of your own anymore.”

He seemed to respond to her example with a displeased frown. “Hypotheticals don’t really help to resolve this situation. It’s not everyone, it’s you, and I care about you.”

The way he said it so bluntly and plainly without any amount of shame or restraint managed to dumbfound her enough to stare him in the eye for a long, silent moment. The priest didn’t waver, on the contrary, his gaze seemed to gain in intensity as time passed.

She exhaled a surprisingly shaky breath, shook her head and turned away. “I’m sorry, but I’ve dallied for far too long. Got things to take care of. I’m sure we can speak later.”

It was the most _obvious_ escape of all time, yet he pursed his lips and said nothing, his gaze merely burnt into her back as she left the scene in fast strides. She hurried to her chambers, began to set up her meditation corner as the thoughts raced through her head, yet as her gaze fell on her shrine, all motions seemed to cease.

Only her heart still bravely hammered on.

What was she even _running_ from?  

Tristian was almost a model priest- she could barely match his level of devotion, although she tried. And how she tried… her goddess granted her spells and she still received her nightmarish visions from her guide, but there was doubt in her heart and doubt was the worst kind of poison.

Doubt. What did she even doubt? There was a kind of restlessness, a sense of not belonging on the path she walked. It wasn’t all-encompassing by any means; most of the time she felt at home with her faith. She found comfort in prayers and safety in the sacred halls, peace in the words and strength in her creed. She willingly fought for the sake of her people and if she died today, she would have no regrets looking back. So what was there to doubt?

Which weakness was she cracking under this time?

Jhod. She could ask Jhod what to do, or- or at least what he thought of her situation. He was her High Priest and really the only person she knew to ask, given his somewhat… difficult history with his faith and he could keep things to himself.

She couldn’t let _him_ know, in any case. He was just too… what would he think of her? Her faith was her only true strength. It had to disappoint him to see her waver.

Tristian… was he trying to look after her in some way? She wasn’t used to having people trying to take care of her, that was her job. He wasn’t just persuasive in a way that was somehow unsettling – each time she was in his presence, she felt almost compelled to just… let go and tell him about her troubles. And maybe she _would_ , but he-… he almost got invested, and that just wasn’t _good_. People shouldn’t get invested in her fate, that rarely ended well. She was ready to sacrifice herself for her cause at the drop of a hat.

And even worse still… there was a side of her that _wanted_ him to get invested. She wanted him to care, to come to her and ask if she was doing fine; she wanted him to pay attention to her wants and needs and seek to placate them because it felt… it just felt nice. It felt _really_ nice.

The memory of him seeking her out after that disastrous meeting with the noblemen stubbornly pushed itself to the forefront of her mind. If rational thought had prevailed, she wouldn’t have let him in, and yet she had- because even at the time she knew he’d have… he was Tristian, and he’d have something soothing to say.

She _knew_ he would calm her and something in her had wanted to be calmed.

That was new. New and scary. It was her job to mother people, not to be mothered. Always had been.

And yet a part of her _wanted_ it – from him, no one else.

Meditation seemed like a more and more urgent matter to her as these thoughts began to become annoying insects buzzing around in her mind. She sat down on her mat, crossed her legs and closed her eyes.

 _Focus_.

* * *

 Tristian wasn’t one to worry about what other people thought of him. His ability to do good and walk away from evil wasn’t based on how others felt about him, after all. He often purposefully allowed himself to become the target of ridicule if it allowed him to get at least the idea of a different outcome out there.

But Annaie… when she got involved, things often took a strange turn. He found himself wishing to earn her approval more than he was comfortable admitting. The fact that she just walked away from him like that was… distressing? It was her choice and he wasn’t about to force her into relaying personal worries to him if she didn’t feel comfortable with it, and yet he… couldn’t help but wonder why.

Did she really not want to burden him? Was that the reason she didn’t wish to confide in him?

He worried, a lot. She could be… reckless rather than brave. Physically, but also emotionally. If things bothered her, she buried them without much fanfare. As little as he understood of mortal struggles, it didn’t seem like a good thing to do. These things had to go somewhere, didn’t they? Did they just… disperse?

The strength that had once seemed like fearlessness to him now harkened of reckless abandon, repressed fury, and self-neglect. And he would _know_ , he was the one who got to patch up most of her injuries in the aftermath. Luckily she almost never traveled anywhere without him, which allowed him to at least oversee wound treatment of her and her party members fairly consistently.

A good month after the confrontation with the nobles from Pitax they set out to explore the Southern Narlmarches in an attempt to investigate the reports of strange Troll sightings that had reached the capital. Tristian had let the matter of her faith rest in the meantime and tried to simply keep their friendly connection going, although he continued to observe her and her… strange habits from time to time.

Around noon Annaie sent Amiri to scout the area for nearby ruins and set the party to travel along the worn path at a somewhat slower pace. They hadn’t set a schedule of when to return to the capital, which allowed for a somewhat more lax approach, but the Baroness didn’t like wasting too much time on traveling… quite frequently because she hated being away from her barony business for too long.

His main role during travel had become checking the immediate environment for notable signs of wildlife, travelers or otherwise relevant phenomena; it was a role he enjoyed, for it allowed him to withdraw from the idle chatter of the group without feeling like a recluse. It wasn’t that he didn’t like talking to the others, but sometimes he needed a moment of tranquility to recharge.

About an hour past noon he noticed a set of wagon tracks derailing into the bordering forest, meandering between the trees and followed by a few different sets of footsteps.

… And one set of much, _much_ larger tracks.

 He turned to alert Annaie but was quickly interrupted by faint screams and sounds of battle hailing from somewhere beyond the trees. She dashed immediately, leaving her party scarcely any time to prepare.

They hurried down the trampled path and followed the tracks of the wagon until the trees split into a wide clearing; a traveling group had set up camp and was now struggling to fend off an uncommonly massive Troll.

A merchant under attack, Tristian quickly realized. The man had barely made it out of his tent screeching for his life when the green giant swooped up one of his guards and feasted on the man’s entrails with a sickening crunch and the sound of crushed metal. The torches didn’t dissuade it, to the guard’s gruesome surprise.

Annaie charged with reckless abandon and quickly brought herself to fill what little space remained between certain death and the tent of the traveling man. It saved the merchant’s life but nearly ended hers when the Troll directed its attention on _her_ instead.

Her Longsword’s fire coating gave the Troll no pause whatsoever; it barreled towards her with unrivaled ferocity and only came to a halt when the heated blade connected with its exposed knee. The creature’s massive claw missed her by an inch thanks to Valerie’s vigilance; the fighter’s sword sliced straight through its wrist, quickly sending it into a howling rage. Annaie rolled to the side at the last moment, just barely missed by the giant aiming to pummel both his companions into the ground, but its long, nasty claw managed to tear a deep gash into her leg.

The merchant had wisely fled the scene and decided to hide behind a group of rocks at the edge of the clearing, flanked by his overwhelmed surviving bodyguards.

The horror of the situation quickly came to him in full when he realized that their Baroness was on the ground, on her back, clearly struggling with disorientation, bleeding profusely from one leg - and a giant Troll was stomping around, weak in one knee and rapidly _losing control of its balance_.

Horror became reality fast; the clawed foot was set to come down right on top of her, she rolled to the side just barely-

A bright flash granted them a moment of reprieve; Linzi had dazzled the creature long enough for Annaie to roll most of the way before the giant’s leg came stomping down on her side, drawing a choked yelp from her throat. The beast was staggering, Valerie was on the other side, too sluggish with her shield, and everyone else was-…

No, _no_ – he was not going to lose her, not like this, not to a _Troll_ -

He broke formation against Octavia’s shrill warning of _‘get out of the way’_ , dashing to Annaie’s side with reckless abandon. The breath of his goddess had to have carried him across the distance; just in time to lodge an arm around her and pull her out of the falling giant’s range. They staggered against a tree followed by her hail of curses and pained chokes and blood seeping into his white robes. The rest of the battle took place only in his peripheral vision – the Troll was downed, its life came to a gruesome end through one of their acid bombs hurling past him, exploding into a rain of sizzling, foul-smelling liquid.

He allowed himself a brief moment of catching his breath only as the giant stopped gurgling screeches and the scene went deathly silent. His heart hammered painfully in his chest, filling his ears with the wild rush of blood.

Then Annaie threw up a splurge of blood in his arms. The silence rapidly became nothing but an echo, the party broke into a chaos of yelling, darting across the scene, barking orders, reaching for supplies.

Reality slowly sank in.

Injured. She was injured. He had to get her out of her armor, _now_.

Annaie’s chest plate was completely crushed. Valerie fought with dislodging the bent plates from each other on his behalf while he soothed their struggling Baroness. The worst he had feared had come to pass; pieces of metal had bent inwards and dug into the bleeding wound beneath. Separating plate and flesh had become an absolute nightmare and he had nothing to dull the pain. Nothing that he could use right now; he needed his strength to treat the injuries.

She was amazingly far more conscious than she had any right to be, but visibly in great agony, grimacing and struggling with every labored breath that shook her chest.

Somehow the woman refused to rest even on the brink of unconsciousness; she raised her wobbly hand and instructed the party to set up camp before coughing up another nasty splurge of blood. Tristian quickly pushed her hand back down and nearly hissed in her face. “Stop that. They can set up camp without you.”

Stubborn patients were the worst to treat and ironically managed to test even _his_ endless patience. Worse in this case, perhaps, because her state of injury was getting to him in ways it never should. A healer could never be anxious in the hour of need, it was their job to remain calm even when everyone else was panicking. He had always held this law close to his heart, but now he struggled with quelling the unrest within.

No. Focus.

Staunch the bleeding, remove the debris, clean the wound, heal what can be healed, bandage the rest.

The mantra became his guiding beacon whenever worry led his mind astray; he couldn’t focus on her cries lest he’d end up wasting precious time. Linzi was sent to fetch his supplies, Octavia to find a specific set of herbs, then it became a matter of practice more than the presence of mind. His hands went through the motions with trained ease once the wounds were freed of the remains of her armor and clothes and the bleeding had stopped; he cleaned out the filth the Troll had dragged into her flesh and removed the severed and too severely damaged tissue. Linzi brought him clean water and his bag of medical supplies, a bedroll to lay their Baroness onto and timid words of support while he worked.

It was appreciated, but he didn’t really have the presence of mind to notice it. The party seemed to catch on to his focus soon enough and began to set up camp around him without getting in the way of his work. Amiri had missed the battle with the Troll and noted this with great dismay as she finally returned from her scouting trip to a scene riddled with chaos, but Tristian barely took note of her presence beyond a small nod in greeting.

When his task came to an end, crimson coated his arms up to his elbow. Blood had spilled onto his robes and even seeped into some of the clothes beneath. Once he finally looked upon himself and her exhausted face, the usually so vibrantly golden eyes of hers gazed up at him dull and faint, like reaching through a veiled haze.  

Yet, despite everything, she peered at him with a familiar sense of defiance. It was comforting, if almost surreal. Did it even matter to her that she could have died?

“Tristian,” she mumbled with a hoarse voice. “A Troll stepped on me…”

Yeah, he had already seen that. Was she trying to be funny?

… Yes. Yes, she was. Of _course_ she was. Annaie often tried to mask things with humor, but in this case he didn’t know what was there to mask.

“Really?” he breathed, a hint of exhaustion-fueled humor in his voice, much as it felt out of place to him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

A brief smile tugged at her lips ere she closed her tired eyes and exhaled a ragged breath. “Can you do something against the pain, it really… hurts…”

“Yes,” he replied with a slight frown.  “Making sure you don’t talk, for starters,” he then chastised gently and carefully laid a hand on her forehead. Not particularly warm nor cold, which was a good sign at least. She seemed a little beside herself, but the state she was in and the blood she had lost could easily account for a slight loss of lucidity. “I have spent all my spells today on healing you, but once Octavia returns with the herbs I need I will be able to make you something.”

Infection was his greatest worry now that she had somewhat stabilized. Out here in the wilderness, he had little access to medical treatment beyond his own skills and his spells would not replenish until his morning prayer.

Her raspy breathing and occasional coughs accompanied the wait for Octavia’s return. He used the time to make her rest a little more comfortable, which also had the nice side effect of keeping his mind busy. Night had begun to fall and the air was going to lose temperature rapidly once the sunlight waned. She was vulnerable to the cold in her state, which forced him to gather a whole bunch of leftover blankets from their companions and carefully spread them out on top of her, and also move her a little closer to the fire the party had set up.  

Valerie and Amiri had spent most of the afternoon trying to dispose of the Troll corpse before it could draw in hungry predators and Linzi had somehow cobbled together a meal from supplies the merchant had left them as a token of gratitude. They themselves had none left, as they had planned to supply the camp through hunting. Octavia returned successfully with the herbs he requested, which he quickly crushed, mixed with juice and fed to her against all complaints about the bitter taste. It made her sleepy and a little loopy soon after ingestion, but it would help against the pain in the absence of better medical care.  An oppressive atmosphere hung over the camp once they’d all settled down around the fireplace; injuries weren’t uncommon, but it rarely hit their leader this hard. In the silence of the evening, his thoughts finally dared to wander.

Fireproof Trolls. For once, he could genuinely say that he had no idea what messed-up scheme of Nyrissa was spawning these, but he could at least claim that he had no doubt the Nymph was somehow involved. The nightmare that awaited her was still only beginning, but now that he knew their brave Baroness better, he felt like whatever was going to lead to the fall of her barony was going to be much bigger than all these tiny squabbles and petty kingdoms that Nyrissa kept playing out against each other.

That was, at least, if she didn’t get herself killed before they could get there. The anxiety he had successfully fended off for the past few hours by working diligently now crept up on him like a cold hand sliding around his neck. A little slower and she would have been crushed, and hoping for a successful revival was always a gamble. Who knew if they could make it back to the capital in time?

Reckless. She was _reckless_ , always racing to the frontlines to keep everyone else out of trouble. They could have kept that Troll at a distance, or she could’ve let Valerie draw most of the damage with her shield. But she didn’t do any of that. The moment she had seen the creature endanger another person, all rational thinking had simply gone out the window.

He admired it, the heart she poured into everything she did, her tireless desire to help everything and everyone, but to his horror, he was also beginning to loathe it. She was going to get herself killed. She wasn’t going to be of any use to anyone in this barony dead, but that wasn’t the cause for his disapproval. No; for once his motive was far more selfish than that. He didn’t want to lose her, not to Trolls, not to bandits, not to _any_ of the beasts that plagued these lands and not to Nyrissa. It went far beyond his usual desire to protect and help people. If he lost her, it would hurt, it would ache in ways he couldn’t even define and he dreaded the thought more than… the idea of seeing literally _anyone else_ die. Putting it another way seemed hardly possible and it made little sense, it was selfish, and yet… it was the only thing that seemed to adequately put it into words.

That was terrifying. A deva playing favorites with mortals…

Her faint voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Don’t look so anxious,” she whispered sweetly, stirring in her bedroll; though the pile of blankets he had stacked on top of her likely made moving a difficult task. Her voice was hoarse and raspy, but that wasn’t going to stop her from making her thoughts known. “Am not dead yet.”

“You could have been,” he replied, voice low and strangely heavy. “What you did was-“

He caught himself. What he was about to say was not actually _his place_ to say, as much as he hated it. She was the Baroness, their leader, and she acted according to her creed. If her faith commanded her to seek battle…

Annaie wasn’t having it, however. “Reckless?” She groaned and shifted a little within her bedroll. “Won’t get any arguments from me...”

An exhale followed a significant pause, a break to let her sort her thoughts in her addled state. “Y’know… ‘getting stepped on by a fucking Troll’ goes right on top of the list of memories I’d rather not repeat...”

_Don’t forget the claw in your leg._

She had saved the merchant’s life. At most he could criticize her for not coordinating her party better, yet a swift reaction was what had mattered in the end. Perhaps if any of them had reacted as quickly as her, they could’ve interfered fast enough to prevent her physical intervention… Linzi’s dazzle could’ve saved him, perhaps. But she’d beaten them all by several feet, despite his lack of armor.

 “You were reckless too. I saw you run past Octavia. Nearly got hit by that bomb.”

He scowled. Yes, in a way, what he had done had been reckless, but he had done it to… save her…

No. She was _right_. He had done the same as her, in a way, so he had hardly any right to criticize her. Weighing her life over that of a merchant just because she was the Baroness of this land would go against everything he stood for. The only difference between them was that he had gotten away with it.

Damnation. He bit his lip and leaned back against his log, frowning at her as she gazed back at him with a half-lidded stare. Her pupils were large and she was drowsy and tired; this wasn’t a discussion to have in this kind of setting.

“Tristian.” Her voice was so hoarse, but she forced herself to speak anyway. He was her healer, he should make her _stop_ , but he couldn’t. How could he? Nothing could stop a stubborn force like her.

 “Tristian, my cause is my life. The barony is my cause. I care for little else.”

The words, bare as they were, poured into his blood like cold ice; freezing, and yet somehow burning him from within. He swallowed the lump in his throat and fought to find the words for the feeling that strangled him.

He knew this, it was logical; why did it bother him so?

“Then care for the fact that your barony would prefer you alive.”

He had never sounded so _harsh_ ; her eyes went wide and she said nothing, nothing at all. Not now and not for the rest of the night. The silence was a boon only in the absence of her inability to keep still otherwise.

So be it. If the barony was her cause, keeping her alive shall be his. For as long as he could.

* * *

 Annaie spent a good amount of time resting in her chambers in the aftermath of her unfortunate Troll encounter, cursing herself for carelessly getting stomped on by a green swamp monster with claws as long as her arm.

Several days passed before she was cleared to once again wander the capital at her leisure, greeted warmly by subjects and servants alike. Her injury had become public knowledge at some point, but Tristian seemed to have done good work in assuring her people that she was doing fine. Now that she walked the streets once more, everyone seemed to breathe a little easier regardless.

How strange it was. The fate of a barony shouldn’t rely so much on the wellbeing of a single person, but somehow this gigantic operation in the middle of nowhere now hinged entirely on her and her life. It was no longer hers to throw away as she saw fit. Tristian’s words scraped at the back of her mind like an annoying mosquito.

_“Then care for the fact that your barony would prefer you alive.”_

It was insane to think about, but he was probably right. And that was terrifying.  

A thought she sought to get away from as quickly as possible, and so she began to make use of her newfound freedom and seek out the tavern, which was always lively at this time of the day. Usually, she could find at least one companion here, which promised an entertaining evening if nothing else. More than anything she’d been _bored_ for the past few days. There wasn’t much to do while recovering from injuries other than pestering her healers for entertainment. Her healers also happened to be advisors both, which meant they were horribly busy for most of the day.

And they were forbidding her from work. Suckers.

As expected, she spotted the chestnut mane of Octavia in the crowd, seated at a small table in the far corner of the tavern, nose deep in a book. Annaie weaved her way through the crowd, came to a halt near the half-elf’s seat and gently knocked on the table.

“Hey, Tav.”

The lady looked up from her ‘literature’ with a mischievous smile still dancing on her lips. “Baroness! Good to see you made it out of quarantine. Looking for a story?”

Annaie arched a brow and knowingly stared at the book in her friend’s hands. Oh, she knew that one. Definitely not her kind of literature. “Not in that book. I doubt it has a story to speak of.”

She let herself fall into the seat next to Octavia and quickly regretted the swift action, as some parts of her were still very, _very_ sore. Octavia had scattered some of her belongs on the table; a half-finished soup was rapidly losing heat next to an already empty tankard. The waitress passed them by for a refill at some point and the mood in the tavern was lively. Interesting choice of location for reading _porn_.

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” She slammed the book shut. “Do you read?”

“Sometimes.”

Oh no, her pile of romance novels was her well-guarded secret. No one would get to see _that_ until the day she died. And if she knew her end was imminent, she would burn it all and take her secret to the grave.

Before long, Linzi had joyfully joined them with a steaming, strange-looking dish and a cup of juice. The bard climbed onto the free seat next to Octavia and began shoveling piles of food into her mouth.

“You really weren’t looking too good that day, Annie.” Somehow the girl managed to express both concern for her friend’s health and appreciation for her food, opposing as these sentiments seemed at first glance.

“You get stepped on by a Troll and tell me how you feel afterward.”

Linzi grinned between bites. “Pass, thank you.”

Her ability to eat was impressive considering her size, and she remained fairly focused on her exotic dinner while they chatted idly.

The last to sneak onto their table was Kaessi, whose sardonic smile immediately made her recognizable as Kanerah to Annaie, but her comrades, of course, couldn’t know that. They always started out a little reserved whenever the young Tiefling joined their gatherings since they never knew if they were dealing with a friendly face or the more… fiendish side of her.

_An Aasimar, a Tiefling, a Bard and a Wizard walk into a tavern…_

It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. And honestly, it kind of was. This whole barony thing was still hard to believe in general, and she kept strange company on top of that. At times it felt like she had stumbled into an incredibly bizarre play with all these unique personalities she was gathering around her, and that didn’t even start to include the peculiar Troll problems they were having as of late. Who had ever heard of fireproof Trolls? And why did that have to happen to her of all people?

“Interesting literature,” Kaessi drawled with an arched brow. “Can I borrow it?”

Octavia only laughed in response and handed her the incriminating book. “Sure, feel free. It’s not the most amazing out there, but it has its moments.”  

_An Aasimar, a Tiefling, a Bard and a Wizard walk into a tavern… and exchange steamy literature?_

This really wasn’t getting better as the joke went on. “Guys, I have a reputation to lose here. At least have the decency to do that under the table like normal people.”

Someone snickered. “The reputation of aggressively flirting with an innocent priest?”

Kaessi winked at her, tail flicking wildly behind her chair. The young woman rested her elbow on the table and laid her chin in her hand, gazing at her so very knowingly with those infernal eyes. She could almost feel the ‘ooh’s coming from the other two people at the table.

_Oof. Cruel._

 “I’m not flirting with him,” she replied weakly, though her face had begun to burn with the telltale signs of a very fierce blush. Her skin was so dark that it wasn’t really visible, but feeling it was terrible enough.

“If that’s not flirting, I really wanna know what it’s gonna look like once you start to actually pursue someone,” Kanerah drawled. She shamelessly stole a chip from Linzi’s plate and shoved it in her mouth. The bard just gave her a look of mild disapproval but didn’t say anything. “Good for you that the man is so dense.”

Honestly, he really was dense. Adorably so, but still.

“Hopefully that will never happen,” she muttered. “I’m not built for relationships.”

Octavia snorted into her tankard. “Nonsense. You deserve love like everyone else.”

Deserving… was this really what love was about? To deserve love? Could one _not_ deserve something like love? Even the evilest of creatures seemed capable of it in some fashion. Even animals. Which creature couldn’t love? And how cruel of a fate that had to be…

The memories of a four-winged angel carrying the news of a dead loved one clawed themselves out of the hole she had tossed them into. Could Celestials love? Did it matter to them? Did they even need it? Her father was a Half-Celestial, but the story of his conception had never failed to confuse her. They had brought his broken body back home to Nerosyan all the way from the front and dedicated to it a procession of honor reserved only for the deserving few. Was that love? Deserved only by the most holy? To her, it had felt strangely hollow even then.

But so had the Celestial. Hollow and broken and sad. It had confused her as a child and it still confused her now. Angels were soldiers, what business did they have loving mortals?

Love… she enjoyed the idea of it; of love even in the strangest places. She read books about it, after all. But it seemed difficult to obtain and keep alive in her line of work. Maybe keeping it alive shouldn’t be the point if it. Still, it felt so sinfully _self-indulgent_ to even dream of love.

Maybe that’s what they meant… Every being deserved love, no matter their responsibilities in life. It seemed oddly comforting a sentiment, so warm and kind.

_Just like Tristian._

Kaessi’s tail curled around the leg of her chair. “She deserves love, and that’s why she shouldn’t go for that priest. Who knows whose name he’ll be moaning in the heat of the moment, hers or the one of his beloved goddess?”

Linzi choked on her mouthful of food, Octavia sputtered her ale across the table; both broke into a fit of scandal-fueled and strangely ashamed laughter.

Annaie had the urge to sink beneath the floorboards and die.

“Guys…” she muttered meekly. Someone gently patted her on the shoulder; looking up, she realized that it was Kaessi, gazing at her somewhat concerned.

“That went too far, didn’t it? I apologize. I’m used to the company of less pious individuals.” The sound of her voice was uncharacteristically kind and sincere; she had no doubt that her apology was genuine. Kanerah was a little sharp sometimes, but Annaie found that she generally didn’t mean to do harm.

“Sorry for laughing,” Linzi mumbled. Annaie gazed at her with a wobbly smile.

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly, I think it just hit a nerve. I’m at a bit of a loss here. I’ve never been in a relationship.”

Plus, it was a valid concern, wasn’t it? Tristian seemed so devoted to his divine patron, could she even compare? Was there even room in his heart for a mortal soul? Though she certainly wouldn’t have… worded it as crudely.

He had leaped to her side in the face of a rampaging Troll, but he likely would have done that for any of their companions. Or at least… she thought so.

Annaie decided to wave over the innkeeper and ask for a loaf of bread while she was already here. Yes, _just_ a loaf of bread, she confirmed, nothing on it, please. The woman seemed a bit confused for a moment but complied with her request.

Octavia had managed to empty her tankard of ale in the meantime. Again. “Just go for it, life is too short to hesitate,” she said. “Worst case he rejects you, and then at least you’ll know.”

There was wisdom in that, Annaie thought. At least she’d know. And knowing is half the battle, right?

Linzi, who hadn’t offered her opinion in this apparent free-for-all yet, barely finished chewing before she began to speak. “The worst tragedies in romantic stories always happen because no one dared to say anything.”

Oh, Linzi was definitely right about that one. If there was a kind of story she hated, it was the kind where two characters spent several books being in love with each other without saying a thing.

She didn’t feel like becoming _that_ kind of character in Linzi’s story.   

Kaessi seemed to disagree regardless. “I don’t like him. He’s shifty. Something about him is just not right.” The Tiefling’s tail flicked wildly.

“What makes you think so?” Annaie asked; eyes narrowed. The urge to hurry to Tristian’s defense immediately was strong, but the distant echo of a memory held her back by the sleeve.

Kanerah and Kalikke were Hellspawn. Descendants of devils. They shared their heritage with her best friend Eryil; saccharinely sweet Eryil whose ability to tell truth from lies was so beyond impeccable that she had served as a mole at her temple at a young age.

It was their infernal gift to sense the lies and hidden shame of another far better than most. She’d relied on her friend’s acute skills for most of her life; being without her out here in the wilderness – and a toy to unseen forces both wild and cunning - was intimidating and overwhelming.

The thought of Tristian of all people triggering this sixth sense was… distressing. He was the kindest soul she knew. If he turned out to be a liar… What could he even be lying about? His heritage, if anything… something was _weird_ about it, but it was hard to say. He’d said in the past that he has no Celestial blood, but he felt like it all the same.

“When he’s with you, he feels shame. I’d chalk it up to not being used to such beauty, of course,” Kanerah drawled with a wink, “but it is so much, he must be drowning in it. Only a good liar could live with so much shame and not reveal any of it. Those eyes of his you always admire from afar-”

Annaie scowled back at her.

“- are filled with cunning. I tell you, he is a liar. A big one.”

Cunning and shame…

Octavia didn’t seem to buy it. “We’re not going to suspect someone like Tristian based on a vague gut-feeling, right?”

Kanerah threw back her head and crossed her arms, tail wrapping around the leg of her chair. The air suddenly tasted of indignation. “It’s not _vague_ , my feelings are very precise. But it’s not my choice to make.”

The recipient of the Tiefling’s ‘vague’ warning, however, had gone quiet. Kanerah had no reason to lie, but her gut feeling could just as easily be wrong. Tristian had been nothing but forthcoming, warm, open and kind, answering every question when asked, embracing every flaw and every strength she had ever offered him. Not to mention all the times he had patched her up without complaint, the Troll encounter aside.

He spoke up only if he felt he was witnessing injustice. He never outright complained about work and he _always_ supported her. Was Kanerah perhaps just not used to such warmth being genuine? Or was Annaie being fooled in the worst of ways?

His presence was comforting enough that she felt… _lesser_ without it. She couldn’t say that it was some kind of deep love they spoke of in dramas and poems, not yet, but… perhaps it could be. If she allowed it.

The conversation had moved on without her, which she was moderately grateful for. There was a lot of thinking for her to do.  

They spent the rest of the evening in good fun. The topic of her love life was mercifully abandoned by the rest of them, allowing her to chew her dry bread in peace while they joked and boasted, Linzi told a bunch of insane stories and maybe her friends got a little bit drunk.

Scratch that, Octavia got absolutely wasted.

* * *

 The thought of Kanerah’s warning and Octavia’s encouragement interacted in strange ways, leading her mind onto meandering paths into the future.

Even if he was lying about something… could he actually fake being such a sweet and gentle person? And did a lie matter? Who knew what sorts of reasons he’d be hiding anything for. Perhaps he had a shameful past. Perhaps he’d tell her someday. Was it really her place to know?

_Just go for it, life is too short to hesitate._

Much as that made _sense_ , it was somewhat hard to. Make use of it. On one hand, because she rarely caught Tristian alone. They were almost always surrounded by other advisors or otherwise important people of the barony, and if it wasn’t that, there was always a petitioner or two coming to ask her for a favor or ten. And money. Always money.

Did she look like she _had_ money? They were barely scraping by half the time! And she still always ended up giving some.

On the other hand, there was the fact that such matters simply weren’t _easy_ to approach. She liked the man and not just a little, but Kanerah wasn’t wrong in claiming that he was a little… dense. She definitely hadn’t forgotten him saying, ‘once, a girl told me that my eyes light up her world. I told her that the light of Sarenrae would light up her soul. She seemed… disappointed,’ with the most _confused_ face she had seen in a very long time.  

How someone managed to be both so persuasive and so… innocent was a mystery to her.

_I tell you, he’s a liar. A big one._

The thought felt like a terribly soured dinner on her tongue.

 _No_. She wouldn’t waste her one chance at something otherwise so unreachable on the distant possibility of him not being who he seemed to be. People lied because of many things, maybe he was just ashamed of… feelings or something.

If the density of his skull was one problem, her own weakness was another. Because the truth of the matter was that she was… afraid?

Love was great in theory. To this day, her favorite book was about a dragon falling in love with a human. It was a tragic story, but she had read it so many times that the book was falling apart at the seams, and still she was always happy to read it more.

And it still never failed to make her cry.

Love was great, but the thing that made it so great also made it painful and her shameful, well-kept secret was her deep fear of such pain. Few things were more painful than having something beloved ripped away from you. She could live through injuries few people even survived and stay conscious for the majority of it, but her soul was like a nerve left raw after too many treatments gone wrong.

Her tender little soul, Eryil had called it, and Eryil always knew.

She missed her best friend. The girl always had the best advice, even if they didn’t necessarily agree on everything. Letters couldn’t make up for what she had left behind when she departed from Nerosyan.

What would she have to say about Tristian?

Annaie took a moment to consider the question; Eryil would probably find him insufferable, but a funny target to play pranks on. Never maliciously… she was a little like the Fey in that regard. No, that didn’t quite fit, for she was definitely less cruel – Eryil could be crass, but she had a deep respect for the life of souls that few would expect from her and her pragmatic attitude.

Would she approve of him? Somehow the Tiefling girl’s voice manifested in her mind.

_If you already love him either way, might as well try to make it less unbearable. Go for it._

… Yeah, that sounded about right.

Well, thanks to her imaginary friend, Kanerah was now overruled three to one in favor of approaching Tristian about her feelings.

That still didn’t solve the problem of finding the right moment for it.

One fine morning just after prayer she finally got the chance to be alone with him for five minutes. They’d set out to further explore the south, where they rescued the gnome – and apparently famous author – Jubilost Narthropple from forcefully being parted with his life and possessions.  

By Tartuccio. Again. Except he now seemed to consider himself… a Kobold, rancid smell and all, and called himself King Tartuk.

Lady Valor _had_ to be testing her.

Either way, they decided to camp for a day or two while Jubilost sorted through his cart, which had taken a bit of a swim, while some of them went ahead and scouted the area along the river.

Come morning the rest of the camp was still asleep safe for Tristian, who had been on guard duty, and her – startled out of her sleep by nightmares of giant Trolls and Kobolds stomping through the landscape, stealing the possessions of innocent villagers and murdering whoever got in their way.

What was it with everyone and their mother trying to get a crown in this place? It seemed worse than usual, with even Kobolds and Trolls somehow fashioning themselves kings. Nevermind the mess with Tartuccio.

The Stolen Lands almost felt like a different world at times.

She exhaled as the touch of the divine coursed through her like a gentle breeze; the cool morning air turned her every breath into clouds and the grass around the camp was coated in white mist, as were their tents and supplies.

 Octavia would be up right now, taking care of her ridiculous mane, but Octavia and Reg had stayed in Tuskdale this time, much as it pained her to leave her friend behind. Additionally, the trip was surprisingly and heart-wrenchingly pun-less without Regongar. Although she’d never let him know that she missed his sense of humor.

But perhaps it was better this way, for it meant that no one else was awake to disturb her.

She could feel Tristian’s striking gaze resting on her back as she finished her daily hour of prayer. Light flooded her vision, illuminating the mark on her face and the halo behind her for a brief but blinding moment.

The feeling would be comforting if it didn’t draw so much attention she simply didn’t want. Arsinoe had once remarked how being Aasimar drew a lot of attention and how she didn’t mind, since she was trying to build a congregation – Annaie couldn’t relate. Perhaps it had helped endearing people to her… but she wanted to be respected as Baroness for her merits and deeds, not for the shiny ring around her head.

Tristian… he was the only one whose attention she did not… mind, if only because he seemed soothed by it rather than awed or impressed. Something in it seemed to calm him, which just added another layer of mystery to him and his… uniqueness.

Annaie rose from the ground, ignoring her aching knees, and – after some deliberation - took a seat by the priest’s side. He was visibly tired, his eyelids just barely held open by sheer force of will, as he had only gotten half as much rest as the others. It always made her feel a little guilty to put people on guard duty, but they couldn’t afford to be caught unaware. He never really complained, but she did her best to rotate their capable guards as to not always have the same two people not getting enough sleep.

“Good morning,” he breathed, slightly inclining his head. Every word came out as a puff of white smoke.  “Your sleep seemed quite restless. Are you alright?”

The concern in his voice was warming, and at the same time made her want to run. When Tristian got concerned, she _always_ ended up somehow getting talked into things. It was almost magical. She smiled mirthlessly, crossing her arms equally in defense against the cool morning air and against the notion that something here was worthy of concern. “Had a vision. It happens.”

The man said nothing in response, but she heard him exhale, breath immediately condensing into a little cloud. Tristian wasn’t happy with the situation, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue. Good.

A few moments passed with them just sitting there, saying nothing. Her companion occasionally rested his eyes now that he was no longer the only one awake. Oh, he was so tired… she’d have to give him some time to nap later. This just wouldn’t do.

“Did you pray already?” she asked somewhat casually, though the answer was pretty much obvious. She just had to fill the silence with something, before it started drilling holes into her skull.

“At dawn,” he muttered, eyes still closed.  

 _As expected_ , she thought. Kind of a pointless question to ask a Cleric of Sarenrae. Dawn was kind of their thing, serving the _Dawnflower_ and all. It seemed like an annoying measure to her; dawn could be at vastly different times of the day depending on the place and time of the year. Her time to pray was in the morning, six hours past midnight, no more and no less.

Now she’d run out of things to ask him, and either way he seemed too tired to truly answer. What was left except to either man up and talk to him about her feelings, or close her eyes and rest a little? In light of the surrounding scenery, the latter seemed vastly more inviting. If she could…

She sighed, threw a suspicious glance in his direction and then, without warning, let her head sink onto his sharp shoulder. The fabrics of his robe were unexpectedly coarse against her cheek and he smelled faintly of heather and morning dew. Tristian was neither muscular nor was he particularly thin, but his shoulders weren’t very broad, which left little room for her to balance her weight against. For a brief moment, she was uncomfortably aware of both their bodies, his and her own and all the sensations between them that united into this slightly surreal experience. His breath hitched and his muscles went rigid the moment he realized what situation he had been maneuvered into, but she remained.

A deep exhale seemed to release most the tension he’d held within, expelling it from his body like an invasive aura. She could feel him turn his head and gaze at her for a while and wondered what sorts of things were going through his mind right now, what kind of expression he had drawn onto his fine features. Was it confusion? Distrust? Discomfort?

He was free to ask her to leave; she trusted him to know her well enough to realize that she would respect his wishes. But he didn’t say a thing and little by little the stiffness that had held up his shoulders unraveled and faded.

Seemed like her little gamble had paid off. Without the tension hardening his shoulders, her support priest had turned vastly softer, a comfortable place to lean against and rest her head.  She could easily fall asleep like this if it weren’t for the inappropriate time of day.

They sat like this in silence for a while; the gentle rise and fall of his slow breathing turned into a rhythmic up and down by the time the motion reached his shoulders, gentle enough to almost lull her to sleep. Surrounded by the sounds of birds chirping, the gentle rustle of leaves, trees creaking in the distance and Amiri snoring somewhere in her tent – it could stay like this, she thought.  

Tristian eventually leaned his head back; his hood had slid off at some point, exposing his impossibly fair hair. Strands of it were tangling with her own or tickling her ears and cheek. It was slightly messy from a long journey and hours of keeping silent watch, but she still somehow had the urge to touch it with her hands.

_Yeah, maybe don’t do that. Slightly weird._

“Annaie.” His voice startled her out of her reverie; she lifted her head which had grown somewhat heavy over time and locked gaze with him, eyes slightly wider than they really needed to be. Tristian seemed a little lost, more than usual anyway. His brows were knitted, drawn together into a contemplative stare, and he was absent-mindedly chewing on his cheek. “Can I ask you something?”

Annaie attempted to offer him a warm smile, but it came out somewhat crooked. “Always.”

The priest dropped his gaze and exhaled, perhaps to steel himself for whatever he was about to ask. “Are we friends?”

 _What_.

Where did that come from- Had she somehow created the impression that they _weren’t_? She’d just put her head on his shoulder, and he was asking her if they were even friends? Maybe when she ran off that one day after they went on a walk together, she had given him the wrong idea… not her finest moment, admittedly, but hopefully something like that wasn’t enough to create the impression that she didn’t consider him a friend.

“Of course we are,” she replied, frowning at him. “What makes you ask that?”

“Oh.” He didn’t say much more in response for quite a while; his gaze was stuck on the idol in his hands, which he seemed to be clinging to just as he always was when he was nervous.

_Don’t invoke your goddess for this stuff, I don’t want to feel like I have to compete with a divine being._

Kanerah’s crude joke mercilessly crawled back into her memory. Yet far worse was the echo of her parents, whose life had revolved around their service to the divine.

_See, this is why this love thing sucks._

“You just… seemed to confide in the others much more than me, and I know that you call them your friends.”

Oh. _Oh_.

Maybe she really had run away from him one too many times. It was a difficult thing – she held herself to a different standard when he was near, and yet such behavior could easily create the impression of distance. It was so obvious now… and yet so idiotic.

“That’s…” Oh, she chuckled half-heartedly, but it was quite a mirthless thing, more an expression of exasperation than humor. “That’s for a different reason. Actually…”

His eyes lit up a little, as a great worry was seemingly wiped from his mind. He still looked very confused, but at least it was no longer _sad_ -confused, more a generalized kind of confused. And Tristian often looked like that to varying degrees, so it was nothing to be alarmed about by itself. On the contrary, his confusion about wordly things could sometimes be almost… endearing.

“Actually, it’s because…”

Her voice failed her in this crucial moment, first losing strength with every word, then faltering completely. The sentence trailed off like tracks in the sand. What could she say?

He looked at her attentively and apprehensively, expecting an answer now that she had set things in motion. She could hardly leave him hanging or tell him that it didn’t matter. It mattered to _him_ , enough to ask her something like this in the first place.  

 She sighed, gazed at the hands that were clutching her freezing arms and gathered what little courage she had left. “It’s because I like you a lot more than that.”

A moment passed with no word spoken between them; she dared not to look at him directly, yet she occasionally peered at him with her downcast eyes.

Tristian, clueless as always, simply blinked; his golden eyes were impossibly wide. “Ah?”

Of course, he didn’t _get_ that. No, not like that. It wasn’t nearly blunt enough.

_I’m such a coward._

“I… must admit I’m not sure how that would work.” He seemed _so_ confused now, brows knitted, eyes wide, and his gaze now focused on a loose chord from his belt in his hand as if it held all the answers to every question he could possibly have.

_You goddamn dunce._

She didn’t even know if she meant him or herself.

Before she could say another word and hope to clarify, something in the camp rustled. With a massive final snore Amiri rolled out of her tent; the noise itself startled Jubilost out of his sleep. The complaining that followed woke the rest of the camp in no time.

Sometimes she wondered if fate just really, _really_ hated her.

* * *

 It couldn’t mean what he thought it meant. It couldn’t. It _shouldn’t_.

He didn’t _understand_ such things. He was a deva, eternities old, he’d spent such a long time serving his goddess, he had no recollection at all of his mortal life. And even if he had, he likely wouldn’t understand the bonds of mortals. They seemed short and fleeting, bound to the whims of fate. His faith was steadfast, it was for eternity because his goddess was a constant, a pillar upholding the foundations of existence within the everchanging. The death of deities was so rare and monumental that the worlds trembled with them.

He loved Sarenrae, it was in his nature to love her, it was her love he was born from and it was her love he sought to return to, her sunlight to bask in, her kindness to drink from. Without her voice, he felt weak and alone. There was nothing to doubt. Nothing to give or take back. It was how it had always been, how it would always be; like everything beyond the material plane it was _Eternity_.

He cared for Annaie, very much – more than he had ever felt for any mortal. It was intimidating and confusing.  But it felt _different_ ; intense and tireless, erratic, almost painful at times. Should any kind of affection feel painful? But if it were the case, certainly mortals wouldn’t crave it so. He hadn’t thought…

These thoughts wrecked him for days. He botched a good few letters and had to rewrite them because of his lack of focus, at one point he spilled a whole pot of ink on his desk, ruining some moderately important documents in the process. Annaie was... _temperamental_ when it came to how her barony was run; he wouldn’t go as far as saying she had a short fuse, but she hated failure with a sort of vengeance that could only be personal in nature. It upset her when things didn’t go well, and then she had to spend the entire day meditating to calm herself.

Ruining state documents certainly was a failure, one he apologized for by delivering an expensive favored treat of hers to her the next morning. She’d accepted the sweets with a smile and a muttered apology for her anger, but she seemed stressed and tired, neither of which were in any way desirable.

That didn’t undo the chaos in his mind as much as it temporarily treated the symptoms of it. Their Baroness was quick to forgive, but he wasn’t one to forget. And truth be told, she seemed more on edge than usual since their conversation at the camp. It had ended quite unfavorably due to their companions waking up from slumber, they hadn’t found themselves alone since and Annaie seemed reluctant to speak with him about private matters in the company of others.

But there was no way around it, he had to get her to clarify just what she had meant that morning because it couldn’t mean what his mind was telling him it meant. It couldn’t. And if it did…

Then what?

He didn’t know the answer to that question and that was terrifying on its own.

Days passed him by, waiting for an opportunity to speak to her. Either she was busy, or he was, or they were trekking through the country again, digging corpses and treasures and long forgotten curses and who knew what else out of the mud. Not the right setting for a conversation like this, he felt.

He finally caught her on her own one evening, gazing at the setting sun on the cliff overlooking the young village. She’d settled there on the ground with her legs crossed and seemed serene, almost too peaceful to disturb her.

And yet… he had to.

He called out her name and she flinched, turned to face him and stared at him with a mild frown. Framed by the setting sun like this… she was too beautiful for words, the colors painted on her skin by the waning light mirrored the bronze sky; her hair seemed to seek to rival the sun for radiance. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was her very own source of light, just as vibrant as a star.

 It wouldn’t surprise him if she was.

Why in Sarenrae’s name did she have to be… like this? Was his mind playing tricks on him? It did uncomfortable things to him; he didn’t _understand_ it. He had seen beautiful things in his life but never had they made him feel so. Erratic.

His inner turmoil paralyzed him enough that he simply froze, until she got up and stepped towards him, head tilted ever so slightly.

Tristian drew a shaky breath, folded his hands and nodded in greeting. “Could you… spare me a few minutes?”

She knitted her brows apprehensively. “What’s the matter?”

Her face, anxious and gloomy, told him that she very much knew the matter, but she was still giving him room to speak his mind.

His voice almost seemed to fail him, but he willed himself to speak. “Back at camp when we spoke, you said something that I… forgive me, I’m not used to having such conversations…”

He realized that her fists had begun to curl into her sleeves, tighter and tighter with every word he spoke. She was tense but listening; biting her lip in apprehension. He had to get this over with, before the tension ended up grinding them both into fine paste.

“It sounded like you… want more of me, and I can’t understand what it is.”

Her eyes fell shut, her chin dropped to her chest, arms crossed defensively; almost like a shield to guard herself with. She seemed as solid as a statue, and yet, if he were to touch her right now, he figured she’d crumble to dust.

_What have I done?_

“I like you, Tristian.” A smile, but strangely twisted; pained. “I want to know you better. As more than friends.” Her eyelids fluttered, revealing the striking shine of her golden eyes in their full intensity. There was something in them, something he couldn’t hope to describe, but an unreachable sense of affection likely came closest. Unreachable? Distant. Held back?

Repressed? Was there even a word for what he saw?

So it really was… She really had meant…

There were so many things he would’ve said if he could. Who he was, _what_ he was- that he wasn’t just a mere priest. That he wasn’t a mortal at all, that she’d be sorely disappointed with his lack of understanding. That he couldn’t give her what she sought. She was a good soul who deserved to be happy and to experience… whatever it was that mortals seemed to crave so much when they spoke of love. He could support her, he _wanted_ to support her, but he couldn’t give her what she seemed to long for.

What good could he do?

That didn’t even begin to address the fact that he was a monstrous liar, manipulating her at every step. She was in love with a _lie_. It was easy to fall into a sense of comfort when Nyrissa was a distant specter in the background, but he had allowed himself to grow complacent and forgot about her looming shadow.

 Worse, how could he tell her gently? There were few things further from his mind than crushing her emotionally; she seemed reserved, but the light in her eyes told a different story. There was _hope_ in them. Hope, the best of the worst, born of the dark yet believing still in the light. How cruel was it to rob someone of that belief?

“Annaie, I…”

Her gaze dropped the moment he began to speak.

 _Sarenrae, please aid me.._.

“I’d be afraid of disappointing you, Annaie,” he finally breathed. The words came easier than he thought they would. At least they were honest. “I know little about the feelings of mortals – all my life was spent serving Sarenrae.”

Something sparked in her eyes – that seemed almost _worse_ somehow, to think that he had awoken something in her rather than killing it. Her determination was a massive beast, ready to tear down cities in its name. If he was to face it as his enemy in this conversation, he feared for the outcome.

“I’ve spent all my life serving Iomedae, Tristian. You think I have any more idea of this than you do?” Her voice was hard, sharp. _Hurt_. She hid the pain with steel.

But she had a point. From the perspective of a mortal, his reply made little sense considering her profession. Yet there was something that set them apart far more than their dedication to divinity. Something he couldn’t reveal to her, no matter how much he wished he could right now.

“I just wouldn’t want my… ignorance to push you away.”  

She sighed, head falling to the side. There was warmth in her eyes, so much warmth, pooling there just beneath the surface. He wanted to understand it; he really did. And worse, he wanted to reach for it, he wanted to _have_ it.

How could one own such a thing? It made no sense.

“I like you just the way you are.” Her voice fell quiet, not unlike a small animal seeking shelter. “I hope you feel the same about me.”

_More than you could imagine-_

No. It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same.

If only he could… if only he could tell her the truth. At least about himself. That he was a deva, a divine servant; surely she’d understand then. She had to be familiar with the scripts of her own church, the structures of the Outer Planes, the duties of his kind. Would she still say the same then?

… What if she did?

What if he told her, and she still said the same? He couldn’t claim that she didn’t understand.

He wanted to know. _Needed_ to know. How certain was she of these feelings, and how did she know, how could she _tell_ \- all he had to do was ask. He leaned in, more ready than ever before to reveal himself and the truth to her-

No. Had he lost his mind? Had he somehow lost sight of the stakes in this game? Was he really about to give up his chance to return to his goddess for… this? Had he forgotten so easily that she was…

She was Nyrissa’s Hound; charmed by the Skylark. He had sung her song again, so beautifully that the Hound was now in love with him. It was bitter. So bitter. So _filthy_.

Finally the onslaught of thoughts and emotions pushed him to pull back. “I care about you, Annaie,” he muttered. “It hurts me to think that we might have a fight.”

Her brows creased; she didn’t understand. Of course not, how could she? Things had to seem fine to her, they rarely argued about anything and if they did it, was over in a flash. His words were cryptic at best, incriminating at worst. But she said nothing; instead, she dropped back onto the ground, back to where she’d been sitting before he disturbed her serene evening.

“I’d like to be alone for now,” she said, not a hint of emotion in her voice, which – knowing her struggle with the intensity of her emotions – was heartbreaking all on its own. Still, he folded his hands in front of his chest, bowed slightly and left her in peace.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	3. Love Freely Given

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I fell off a horse on thursday and bruised my hip. I couldn't even sit without painkillers for two days. As a consequence part of this was written while I was a little bit drugged  
> I accept no liability for potential damages caused by this  
> Ingame conversations ahead, folks. I struggled with including these, but it doesn't really feel complete without them either. Life is hard.  
> Sample of the music I listened to while writing (most of these are German, I apologize. German is my native language): [Angelus (Subway to Sally)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h3QeEtIZaQQ); [Herrin des Feuers (Subway to Sally)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LmR1-af5mDo); [Scherenschnitt (Ignis Fatuu)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vs8jvB9Sx-8); [Herzschlag (Nachtgeschrei)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ewVYGElYx3g); [My Name is Human (Highly Suspect)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5-gja10qkw)

* * *

 

“Eryil, look. I got this from my dad.” She held up a silvery feather, as long as a man’s hand and sharp along the ragged edges. The Tiefling sniffed three times, then scrunched up her nose in mock disgust.

 “Ew… smells super sweet,” she hissed; her tongue poked through her lips between sharp rows of teeth.

Nothing was real, but everything mattered anyway. She was nine. The Fourth Crusade had begun. A chorus of voices, songs, and the endless marching of damned souls.

“It’s one of his feathers!”

Untainted. Alive. Unbloodied.

Held up against the sun, the countless fibers appeared almost transparent, patterned and ornamented like the grandmaster’s cloak or her mother’s shield. She twisted it, reveling in the peace and glory of the past.

Eryil snorted. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

Like a dissonant feeling coming undone, the feather dissolved in her hand and faded with the wind. Eryil beside her shattered head-first, crumbling and melting into the ground. The memory itself disintegrated.

Between her and the world there was nothing and yet everything.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Then the memory screen cracked, unraveling the scenery around her. There was nothing left except for a clearing in the middle of the forest, a forest that stretched on forever and ever. She couldn’t see, but she knew.

Because she was dreaming.

It always had to be some cryptic, overwhelming, completely pointless scenery complete with a just as cryptic symbol or metaphor, and then she somehow had to figure out what the hell this damned Celestial was trying to tell her, only to then get another dream somewhere down the line telling her how she fucked up.

It could never just be _easy_ , could it?

She crawled out of her ditch her charming dream guide had dropped her into, quickly finding herself forced to shield her eyes from the blinding light in the center of the clearing. A burning wheel, as tall as a man, surrounded by ripped and bloodied feathers scattered across the moist forest floor.

She could gaze at it only as her eyes grew used to the brightness of the fire; words burned into her mind through the dancing flames, whispered by the crackling blaze.

_Betrayer._

It wasn’t holy fire. Spoiled.

_Focus on your task._

What?

The dream fell apart with a sudden burst of a furious inferno consuming her and the clearing and everything that lay beyond. She startled out of her sleep with a deep, desperate breath and immediately rolled onto her stomach, pushing herself up on her arms.

Harrim stared at her from his bench, looking tragically serene as ever. Waking up from one of her strange dreams to a cleric watching her adventuring camp was becoming a strangely common occurrence in her life.

“Did you dream of oblivion?”

She snorted. “I wish.”

The dwarf sighed melancholically. “Me too.”

What a bizarre conversation to have at this early hour. Just a moment past dawn, which meant that Tristian would be-

“Are you alright?”

… Yeah, that.

She waved off his mothering and sat up on her knees, taking a moment to internalize the fact that she was awake and no longer dreaming of a burning wheel in a forest. If it hadn’t been so huge, she could’ve mistaken it for a blazing halo.

Things being on fire could have vastly different meanings depending on what _kind_ of fire it was, and considering this had been plain old fire, and the feathers…

Not good. Stupidly cryptic regardless, which made her feel inclined to ignore it out of pure spite.

_Betrayer._

For a brief moment, she gazed at Tristian and felt a strange cold creep up on her, coursing through her veins like a wild river.

Feathers. Angels. He felt like…

No. He wasn’t one. He’d said so himself, he had no marks, no halo, no wings. Nothing. This dream business was stupid. If that guide wanted to tell her something so badly, he should either get off his ass and show up in person or get more clear about it, she wasn’t going to waste her time interpreting a stupid burning dream wheel.

 Hell, maybe it was related to the place they were at. This swamp was a horror of its own, filled with lost souls, cursed creatures and Hodags. Knowing what had transpired in this village in particular, the dream may have referred to the deeds of the bride whose preserved body now lay at the edge of the area, kept untouched through powerful fey magic. Her role in this story was a mystery, but Annaie had a hunch she didn’t like.

The history of this place was particularly upsetting to her, especially after getting rejected by Tristian for such-… no, why hold back, it was a completely idiotic reason. He was a cleric – well, so was she, why pretend it had to stop them. Her parents had somehow managed to fall in love and they had been as devout as it could get.

Oh no, she wasn’t mad. Maybe she was giving him the cold shoulder a little. Maybe. Not intentionally. It was hard to remain calm in his presence, but she had still brought him along on this journey regardless. No offense to Harrim, but Tristian was the best healer they had by far. They may be three clerics now, but where they were going – the old Dwarven Fortress in the south – they were probably going to need it.

And she still didn’t like going anywhere without him.

Not that it had helped matters, because they had somehow managed to run into the most amazing couple of all time; Falchos and Tiressia, whose love for each other was so over the top that even Tristian had taken a moment to stop and stare, and bluntly asked her how such a couple could even exist.

_Tristian leaned towards her, clearly astonished. “What an amazing couple! What could bind these creatures so, being so different?”_

_She blinked, then scowled. “What makes you think they’re different? If their souls align, why should their appearance matter?”_

_Her response seemed to have struck a nerve; he pulled back, brows furrowed, and nodded. “Yes, of course…”_

Unfortunately, this whole area was apparently designed solely to poke a raw nerve, since it was steeped in interspecies romance gone horribly wrong for no reason other than mortal idiocy. Playing around with curses… she turned the three coins in her hands, pondering.

Today they’d charge the Scythe tree and hope to find a way to lift the curse. If she couldn't, that meant she’d have to pick whose soul to liberate from suffering and leave the other to rot. Decisions like that were never particularly fun.

How could something as simple as names written on a coin cause something so powerful and… seemingly irreversible? This place was almost overflowing with curses, so strongly that a wrong word from a mother uttered in exhausted anger may curse her own child.

Someday this curse would come to take her too, she knew it.

Tristian of all people was apparently the only one who hadn’t gotten the message of ‘leave the Baroness alone’; he slowly strolled over to sit down next to her and inquisitively eyed the coins in her hand.

“What are you thinking about?” the priest asked softly. The non-cleric half of the party was still asleep, which called for only soft-spoken conversation.

She exhaled and willed away the tension. Walking on eggshells was tiring when his presence had previously been the one to calm her down once all else had failed. Perhaps he had grown as sick of the awkwardness as she had.

“Whose soul to liberate in case we can’t do anything for the Scythe Tree.”

The coins were heavy in her hand, so much heavier than they should be; as if the curse that rested on them made them a weight on her very existence.

_Who claims the land, claims its pain and death._

Wilber, the Headman who had cursed no one, but was cursed twice by the other souls.

Dorsy, the ghoul, who had cursed both the Fey Queen and the Headman, but gave up on his redemption for the sake of one of the souls he had cursed.

Whose coin was the third?

Tristian sighed deeply, a troubled expression etched into his features. “I… fear we will not be able to do anything for the Fey, Annaie. The curses of these lands run deep.”

As much as he was likely right, the notion troubled her no less. An army of Clerics and Inquisitors could be combing the Stolen Lands for souls lost and yearning for centuries, and they’d still never succeed in saving all of them. On the contrary, half of them would likely end up as lost souls themselves.

Annaie slid the coins back into her bag. “We’ll see,” she then mumbled, not quite convinced of her own words. “I must pray soon. Wake the others shortly before I finish my prayer, then we shall prepare to face the tree.”

The priest nodded softly, frown unchanging.

* * *

The crumpled letter in her hands was damp, filthy and damaged, but - as if preserved by magic – it had defied time, nature and wind enough to still be readable today.

Poor Nyta. Poor, foolish Nyta. The handwriting solved the mystery of the owner of the third cursed coin, but it laid on her heart like an even heavier weight now that her suspicions had come true.

She exhaled and let herself sink against the rotten boards of the nearest weathered shed to recover from the exhausting fight. Her companions needed a moment to gather their bearings, and she needed even more of a moment to ponder how to proceed.

Tristian was staring at the ghastly remains of the tree looming like a shadow in the distance, looking lost and forlorn. The gnarled branches painted piercing patterns into the poisonous mist, broken in places and bent in others.

Something was bothering him.

 She called him over by his name. The man first turned, startled, then reluctantly strolled to her side. He sat down next to her, forlorn gaze still resting on the broken remains of the monstrous Queen.

His sorrow seemed to go beyond hers, in a strange way. Not because he mourned the Fey Queen, although he surely did. Something there seemed to bring forth a deeper pain left unspoken, to the point he seemed almost oblivious to the things around him.

“Are you alright? You didn’t get smacked during the fight, did you?”

 He blinked, looking somewhat confused. “No.”

Briefly possessed by a mischievous spirit, she reached out and poked his cheek. “Good. We need you.”

Tristian only managed to lean back far enough to escape her briefly; the movement, however, revealed a far greater menace when a suspicious crinkling sound came from his cowl. He squinted, then scowled; she observed him in confusion for a moment until his pale fingers curled into his hood and slowly pulled it back, revealing several dried leaves stuck to his hair and collar that had been blown in over the course of the fight.

 A moment passed them by in silence, then she snorted and struggled to hide the oncoming grin. “Well, that’s new. Are you converting to druidism?”

He threw her a somewhat pained glance. “If I was, they wouldn’t feel so terrible.”

Heavens, the man looked at her like a sad puppy.  

Annaie was about to reply, but the sentiment was somewhat lost to his leaf problem. They near immediately disintegrated upon touch whenever he tried to pluck them from his cowl, partially descending down his shirt as a rough hail of litter. His dejected scowl told her just what exactly he thought of having dried, crumbled leaves poking his neck, shoulders and back for several hours.

“Wait, you forgot one.” Annaie cautiously reached for his collar and retrieved the last crumbling leaf - or at least half of it - before it could escape into his robes. They had left a mess of dried foliage in his clothes, which he’d now have to live with until their next camp.

He squinted, looking miffed. “I think one got in whole.”

“Callistropsia’s parting gift, I reckon,” she quipped dryly. Tristian almost seemed to _pout_ in response.

_Stop being so adorable._

“You’ll live. It’s a small price to pay for her peace.”

 His responding smile was faint and short-lived, but warm. Still, his gaze soon dropped to the letter still resting in her hand.

“What does it say?” the priest asked faintly. The light mood that had taken hold of them for a brief moment of respite immediately disintegrated.

“She was angry at Wilber. I think Nyta tossed the third coin. She cursed her own father.”

“I don’t understand why she would do such a thing,” the priest mumbled, brows creased. “On her own wedding, no less.”

The coins were still heavy in her pocket, burning against her skin through layer upon layer of fabrics. It seemed almost too strong a coincidence that two different people had gone for the same manner of curse on the very same day. Even if Nyta hadn’t cursed her father, Dorsy had cursed Callistropsia, which meant the tragedy would have proceeded either way. Almost as if someone or something had been determined to wipe out this village. Regardless, the question of ‘Why’ was a far more personal one, even if the mechanics pointed to larger forces at play.

“The fear of losing one’s love can make people do foolish things,” she mused. “Nyta loved Callistropsia and I reckon she grew to hate her father over it.”

The priest scowled, stuck somewhere between being confused and disapproving. “But did she not love her father too? How could love so easily be undone?”

“Not _easily_. Whenever love comes undone or is threatened, you see people at their worst. That’s what happened here.” Her voice became faint. “It hurts to lose love. She feared losing Callistropsia more…”

Still, his scowl only became deeper as she spoke. “I don’t understand. Why does it hurt… to lose?”

Somehow, she had it in her to smile faintly; his confusion was stunning but sincere.

He really didn’t understand, did he?  

“When you love someone, you want them to be with you and love you back. There’s this notion of noble unrequited love from a distance in fiction and poetry but… I think it’s stupid. Usually, hurting over it all their lives is part of the package. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of or seen anyone who can just happily love someone and be okay with never being loved back even at their worst.”

Several heartbeats passed without Tristian saying anything, then he slowly exhaled. “I see.”   

It didn’t really sound like he did, but she wasn’t in the mood to push it further. The topic was depressing enough as it was. Now they sat there, two cloistered, ignorant clerics of two different deities musing about the destructive side of love in the remains of a destroyed swamp village.

Truly romantic.

The absolutely desolate environment probably was the major factor that had convinced him of the… harmless nature of this conversation, which she was moderately grateful for, as she wasn’t in the mood to muse over whether his or her feelings were meaningful while also musing about the meaning of love in general; just too many layers of musing.

She _had_ always hated the philosophy lessons.  

Some moments of relative peace passed by in silence. The rest of the party hardly made themselves known, either pacing through the destroyed village, taking a moment to rest like their leader or speaking quietly at the edge of the murky pools. It almost seemed like a moment of silence for the fallen Queen Callistropsia, a brief period of mourning for the only soul in this tragedy that seemed to have done no wrong. Turned into a rampaging monster against her will, for no reason other than hatred and jealousy.

She wondered if Callistropsia would ever be free of her perils. Just another reason to find whatever plagued this land and purge it from the face of Golarion.

Comfortable as their position was – she wouldn’t have minded a nap for a minute or two - they had run out of allotted break time, which meant gently patting his arm to get his attention. Tristian soon lifted his head with a confused frown, looking at her somewhat drowsy and dazed. Annaie offered him an apologetic smile for compensation, then quickly got up and wiped the dust and dirt from her pants.

Her personal support priest soon followed suit, evidently trying not to look miffed by their downtime coming to an end.

The coins were still resting in her pocket, screaming at her to be given to one of the lost still wandering the remains of this desolate place. She pulled them out with one hand and weighed them as she pondered.

The time for a decision was now. Who knew when they’d next return; letting these souls wander the land for another eternity was needlessly cruel, even if she could only free one.

Tristian had seen her fiddle with the coins once more and now gazed at her expectantly.

“I think I’ll give the coins to Dorsy,” she muttered. “Wilber doesn’t seem to be… outright suffering, for the moment. I’ll see if I can get in contact with Pharasmites and direct them here. They may be better equipped to handle such matters.”

He nodded, looking somewhat crestfallen regardless. “That may be the best course of action, I fear.”

“Well then.” The coins disappeared back into her pocket. She picked up her shield and longsword, battered the sheathed blade against the wood and hollered across the scenery.

“Onwards, to great deeds!”

Unexcited groaning resonated from all sides.

* * *

 

 

_“Annaie. You’re meant to carry the sword and shield for Aasethiel’s funeral march. Where are you going?”_

_“I don’t want to.”_

_“This is not a matter of choice. You will not disgrace your father’s legacy.”_

 

* * *

The more he spoke to Annaie, the more confused he became.

His initial answer had only made things worse somehow. Annaie seemed no happier with it, on the contrary; for a good week, she had been… unpleasantly moody. Snapping at him and others, at times outright ignoring him. Tristian sensed that she was unhappy with both herself and him, but he was too overwhelmed by the situation to know how to solve it.

If he even could solve it. Truth be told, he was starting to suspect it wasn’t in his power to do so.

He was glad to see her begin responding normally again on their journey south, even if she now seemed distressed for _other_ reasons. The topic of Nyta and Callistropsia and their unfortunate story had been a heavy toll on her mood, the atmosphere was hard to ignore even for the rest of the group and he was starting to feel like everyone else was somehow aware of what had transpired between them.

She seemed distressed by these conversations more than anything else; these conversations, and the topic they covered. Love… he knew only one kind of love. He knew to love his deity, but mortal love… it didn’t seem like that. Not at all. Almost like a thing to be coveted, taken and kept. Traded for. _Bargained_. How she spoke of having, keeping and losing love made it sound like a commodity to own. Wherever he looked, mortals seemed to echo this idea; this sentiment of a thing to be kept and given.

He had never doubted his devotion to Sarenrae, no matter the hardships he faced. It was a part of his being. Yet mortals… could take their love away, it seemed, and choose to put it somewhere else. Such an uncertain thing. So… conditional.

And yet, as he spent his mornings in prayer, he wondered. He didn’t doubt his love for his goddess, but her silence was distressing. Being so far from her, when he so desperately wished to return to her light.

_Losing love…_

He feared the darkness. He feared being alone. He practically spent his mornings shouting prayers into the void, yet never heard an answer, no sign, no voice, no light. Nothing. She granted him spells still, but that was a trait he shared with many, even some of the disgraced.

 _Disgraced_. No. He wouldn’t-he couldn’t-

Every morning, the only thing that awaited him was a deafening silence. Did his goddess not miss him? Did she not wish for his return? Did she care so little that her servant was in peril, trapped on the material plane? How many years had Nyrissa spent making him his loyal pet, his Skylark?

How many lives had he ruined, how many souls damned in her name?

Soon, they would be facing the Trolls in their lair, tearing apart yet another of her schemes. Games of the Nymph that had ended countless lives within the barony, like those of Ekun’s family; and yet there were so many more still to come and he was helpless to stop it. Nothing short of divine intervention could possibly end this nightmare.

 “Are you alright?”

_Ah… Annaie._

Her voice carried a sincerely open hint of concern, warm and fair. A sweet cadence against the harsh nothing within; it filled the void left by the silence of his prayer, though the thought almost-… frightened him. She was not his goddess and she could never take her place – the idea was sheer blasphemy and sent every piece of his being into fits of terror - and yet he felt similarly comforted by her presence, at least for a time.

_At least for a time…_

She deserved an answer, didn’t she? Annaie deserved so many things and yet she didn’t seem to want any of them. All she had asked for was… his affection. How had he charmed her so? What was it that she felt so drawn to?  

Of all the things she could have wanted.

He began to speak slowly, voice strangely distant and heavy on his tongue. The words came to him seemingly on their own, dazed as he felt. “All my life was devoted to the great goddess, the radiant Sarenrae. Life without her is life without sunlight.” He lowered his head slightly. How stiff and clumsy the words felt, like a carefully studied response. “I do not choose to love her or not: love for her is in my nature.”

_And yet she is silent._

Was this idea too abstract for a mortal soul to understand? It was hard to tell. To love his deity, to serve and to strive to be loyal always felt like the very essence of him, not something he could just… not do. But as of late he felt like being trapped in this mortal shell was changing him and he didn’t like it. Or perhaps simply witnessing the perils and challenges of mortal life was enough to do so on its own.

There were deva who turned away from their gods, those who chose to change their affiliations, who dedicated themselves to ideas different from those who birthed them… and those who fell from grace and never looked back. Change, it seemed, was not foreign to his kind and still, he felt like a fish on land, desperately trying to breathe air.

Was it perhaps not his nature but… him? Celestials could be highly complicated individuals and no two angels were ever the same, but he had never attempted to decipher his own nature. Not like this. It was _distressing_ , to pry and prod at oneself until everything was nothing and nothing meant anything, and yet he somehow couldn’t help it. Was mortal existence doubting oneself every step along the way?

Annaie was still waiting for him to speak, as much as he could’ve drowned in his brooding for another eternity. What could he say that would explain how he felt? Why would the words just never come to him?

 “Here among… other mortals…”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly; she shifted her weight and crossed her arms, brows creased. She said nothing, waiting for him to continue, but he knew his gracious Baroness had caught his pause. Someday this charade of his would come apart and shatter everything.  

“I keep hearing about this other kind of love.” His voice seemed to fade out of his mind, speaking almost on its own accord. Whatever he was about to say, he couldn’t have stopped it if he wanted to. “One that is given, like some material possession, then to be taken away.”

They all seemed to understand it, this love. Every mortal somehow had an idea of this mercurial emotional pull that brought them together and yet just as easily ripped them apart, this force that had bound Nyta and Callistropsia into a promise of eternity, that lured Dorsy to curse two souls, that brought Nyta to loathe her own father. What was it that he was missing? He didn’t like not understanding things, it gnawed at his pride.

“It seems so… short-lived. Unreliable? I can’t even find the right word.”

She finally reacted, tilting her head just slightly as she always did when trying to understand things – and her brows creased a little further, giving her that thoughtful look. She was like this when making important decisions in matters of state; to have this look dedicated to him almost made him feel… a good kind of light-headed?

What was it with these physical reactions caused by the simple presence of another being? It wasn’t magical, but it sure was bizarre. It wasn’t uncomfortable either as much as it simply was confusing. Again, the words to describe it all eluded him.

“Is a love given freely worse than one you have no control over?” she asked, voice thoughtful, so gentle and non-judging. How patient she was with his lack of understanding.

A love that is given freely… he had never thought about it that way. To give something dear to you, and receive something dear in return? To give away one’s heart, even if it may end up being hurt. To make oneself vulnerable to another…

Was it the choice part that made it so meaningful in the first place? Dedication to one another, even in the face of uncertainty?

He had to think about this more.

Finally, Tristian turned to her, gazing at her thoughtful face. “Probably not,” he said, voice now firm. “I just never encountered it, and I’m not hurrying to judge something I don’t understand.” He then paused briefly, eyes locked with hers. “Or think I don’t…”

Her brows arched, just slightly.

Oh, he shouldn’t have said that. She’s not an idiot. She understood the meaning. Her eyes widening just slightly, the slight exhale, the gentle tilt of her head… He shouldn’t feed her determination like this, it was a cruel beast with eyes only for the hunt. He’d have to choose his words more carefully if he didn’t want to make this situation even worse. Still, there was something he needed to know – and considering what she had said to him, she was the best person to ask despite the potential consequences.

His curiosity was simply too strong a force to ignore.  

“Tell me, Annaie… How do you choose the one who you… can trust?”

The one to give one’s heart to – such an insecure thing, to always be in danger of being crushed. Mortals were so brave in so many ways and he had never known. “Do you… follow your heart? Do you listen to reason?”

She seemed a little… bamboozled by the question. Her brows creased further, giving her a deeply contemplative look.

“I’m sorry if this is too personal… but I’m desperate to understand.”

_Why did you choose me? Did I accidentally choose you?_

“You know, Tristian…” she began, eyes downcast. “People don’t normally come to me for this kind of advice, as you can probably guess, but I… I prefer to listen to my heart. It’s not the answer I’m supposed to give though, I think…”

She had made it clear to him that her understanding of love wasn’t incredibly advanced either, yet she said it with such sincerity that he had no trouble believing her. What she did, she did with conviction – and when she didn’t it gnawed at her, unraveling her slowly. She was a sincere and kind person, even if they had their disagreements, and she was willing to listen to his voice even when everyone else thought his requests ridiculous.

 _Yes_ , he thought and nodded. “Of course. For some reason I’m not surprised…” he then said, tilting his head thoughtfully. “You are always so sincere in what you do. That happens when a person’s action comes from the heart.”

She _did_ listen to her heart. Perhaps that put her at odds with her goddess, even if the thought saddened him. Was it the source of her struggles? Her fears?

Annaie seemed almost amused by his conclusion, though the way she shyly averted her gaze spoke of an unseen blush. “You are one of a kind, Tristian.” There was something in her voice, so warm and sweet, that told him that this was a… compliment of sorts. It made his insides tingle strangely.

_I like you just the way you are, Tristian. I hope you feel the same about me._

Could she really? The thought now gnawed at him, tearing at his resolve. What if she… But…

Falchos and Tiressia had found each other in the face of their differences. A sight that had baffled him so much that for a moment he had forgotten about the events between himself and the Baroness - long enough to ask her a rather blunt question and immediately regret it in the aftermath. Still, her response had rested heavily on his mind ever since.

_If their souls align, why should their appearance matter?_

Indeed, why should it? If Celestials could change like all souls, and love was born through the force that brought kindred spirits together, then perhaps the shell that housed these souls truly did not matter. And yet… there was so much to consider, so many things he was in danger of throwing away for something he didn’t even truly understand.

Annaie was like him in many ways. She sought to please, to better the world, to succeed. All these things and more he could relate to; the longer he walked by her side, the more the differences that set them apart seemed trivial when compared to the threads that connected them.

Nyrissa had called them birds of a feather. Had the bitter Nymph known, or was she unaware of the irony she had unleashed? It frightened him to think that she had meant for this to happen.

No, not even Nyrissa could plan something like this in advance.

He finally decided to get off the ground, considering his next words as he rose to his feet. A part of him, erratic and aching, longed to reach out to her, grasp her shoulder for just a moment. Pull her close and understand what it felt like, relive the warmth he had experienced when she leaned against him without warning. Take the warmth he saw in her eyes and keep it for himself.

It was a pull both intoxicating and so very cruel.

Painful.

_No._

The events he had almost set in motion were strangled at the last possible second. She managed to look a little startled, but also… disappointed. Whatever the topic, he only kept hurting her more with his blundering and flailing.

Quickly he began to speak, hoping to wipe the moment off her mind. “Thank you, Annaie. For this conversation. I cherish every moment I spend with you. I hope I am not a burden.”

Her brows furrowed into a mild scowl.

“If anyone ever tells you that you are a burden, let me know so I can banish them from my barony.”

He chuckled nervously. “That doesn’t seem very legal.”

Her lips thinned with displeasure. “Hurting you shouldn’t be legal. I should make a law against it.” A spark of mischief lit up her eyes; she stepped closer, so close that he could feel her breath on his skin, but their bodies remained mercifully apart. Who knew what it would do to him if they connected. “Don’t insult Councilor Tristian or face banishment from the Stolen Lands.”

It was obvious that she wasn’t being serious, but it still made him tingle in all sorts of ways to see the look in her eyes, the firm tone of her voice – fierce, determined. _Protective_. Annaie always guarded those close to her with fierce determination, but this seemed to be a step even beyond that.

Tristian took a step back before the proximity managed to completely liquify his insides, whatever that meant. It seemed like a fitting description for what was happening inside of him right now.

“I think that would actually make my job more difficult,” he managed to say, voice a little less steady than he would’ve liked.

Just like that, her face flipped into a smile, all the fierceness wiped away. “Probably. And I’d be facing a good talk about _justice_ with my old mentors. Alas, a girl can dream.” She shook her head. “You mean so much to me, Tristian. You’re never a burden. I don’t care what it is, if you have a problem, talk to me. Please.”

_I wish I could._

But he smiled at her regardless.

* * *

 

_“The River Kingdoms? That’s a joke, right? We’re running out of soldiers and they’re sending you to some southern backwater?”_

_“I don’t know what the fuck is going on either.”_

 

* * *

The journey through the old fortress was draining as it was arduous.

Still; in the end, Tartuk lay before her, his “kingdom” in shambles, his subjects had fled, his ally succumbed to death. They had wiped out almost all the Trolls of “Trobold” safe perhaps for a few stragglers who had fled the fortress. It would be no use pursuing them. If they had any brainpower left, they’d get as far away from her barony as possible, and never return.

Tartuk though… he had no such luck.

The Kobold had given up the fight eventually, lying trembling and bleeding at her feet as the last rays of sunlight broke through the cracks in the walls. Dusk had come upon the world with fittingly dramatic timing.

The only right move would’ve been to kill him then and there. A quick mercy. A fast end. Yet, just as with the young rock trolls before, she found it difficult to strike the final blow as she should.

For the moment, she could at least postpone the decision by satisfying her curiosity – pressuring the once-gnome into relaying to her the means of his transformation was no easy feat, but she had a way with words and weapons.

Unfortunately, the answer ended up being vastly less satisfying than she had hoped. The Kobold had little memory of what had resurrected him into this state; and worse still, his mind seemed to have been permanently altered, with flashes of his former self coming through only when forced and prodded and under great discomfort; Tristian only watched him struggle through a few sentences before she felt his hand come down on her shoulder with a pleading head-shake.

He had a point. This… this was miserable. Whatever Tartuccio had become, he was no longer the creature he used to be. The gnome truly had _become_ Tartuk, through a bizarre twist of fate. Or higher powers. Perhaps both.

In the end, she stood before the decision of his fate once again, and she was none the wiser. The tip of her worn longsword came to level with the Kobold’s snout, ready to swiftly end yet another life.

As if summoned by her shaky resolve, Tristian stepped forward and laid a hand on her outstretched arm. “He deserves a second chance. Everyone does,” The man said, taking his usual role as the voice of mercy. The striking gold of his eyes revealed nothing of the thoughts beyond; he had withdrawn behind his mask of serenity even as the disapproving glares of some of their companions fixed on him.  

“It’s not his second chance, Tristian. It’s not even his third. How many times should he be spared?”

“You’ve slain Tartuccio, but you’re facing Tartuk. Whatever changed him, Tartuccio’s past mistakes are not his. It _is_ his second chance.” The priest seemed quite confident in his assessment, but he let go of her arm and took a step back regardless, leaving the decision to her as always.

She bit her lip, staring at the pathetic creature with a deep scowl. Tartuk. Tartuccio. His passion for his newfound people seemed genuine, but so was his megalomania. Who knew what crazy schemes he’d come up with next.

She couldn’t forget the Kobold graveyard. The statues, the elaborate grave markers. The giant dragon head made solely from bones. There’d been strength to that place – an aura of sacred grounds. Art in these old halls, crude as it was. A culture.

Jubilost’s cart came to mind – yet Tartuk claimed they had merely come to ask for blankets. Could the Kobolds be blamed for violence coming their way simply for the sake of prejudice?

It didn’t seem like justice. Her peers could rationalize the thoughtless slaying of Kobolds, Mites and other creatures of little consequence because they banished them to the outskirts of civil society, considering them invaders and destructive forces rather than elements of the system that they sought to protect. But the Kobolds were beginning to demonstrate all the elements of a… of a people. Yet the environment was totally hostile to them, constantly pushing them back into the role of beastly invaders.

Could she really justify killing him? To what end? Could they become more than they currently were? Did it even matter? Were their lives worth less because they seemed less advanced?

How she _hated_ these decisions. Demons, give her demons to fight. Don’t give her this.

Annaie sheathed her longsword after a long moment of quiet consideration but focused the Kobold King with a deep scowl. “Get out of my lands and never return. I don’t ever want to see you again, in this life or the next.”

The Kobold’s eyes grew impossibly wide. “You… You would let me go?”

 “Do _not_ make me regret this. If I hear of you or your tribe ambushing people again, I _will_ find you and fix my mistake.”

“We will stay far away from humans,” the Kobold spoke hastily, nearly stumbling over his words in his hurry to offer her his reassurance.

She narrowed her eyes but curtly nodded, then gestured for her priest to get the Kobold back on his legs. Tristian stepped forward and chanted a healing spell; it would be cruel to send Tartuk out there like this. A quick death was one thing, but slowly bleeding out… no. Such cruelty was beyond her.

 Thus, her opponent gathered what remained of his people and fled the fortress – and hopefully her lands, forever.

Truly, hope and the word of a once-traitor now turned Kobold were all she had; the thought settled in her stomach like a heavy stone. She’d have to spend the night in prayer for guidance, for she could not imagine her deity would be happy with this decision. Tartuk had escaped justice solely for the sake of her kindness, and in doing so, she had denied his victims the peace of retribution.

For what? A chance at a better world, perhaps. The potential of a slightly kinder future. Her creed commanded them to seek justice for the oppressed, but ‘oppression’ was not a word she’d use to describe the standing of Kobolds in society.

Her priest stepped up behind her, a mild crease in his brow. She glanced at him and released a heavy sigh; the tension somehow seemed to slide off her shoulders whenever he was near.

“I feel like I’ve made a huge mistake.”

For a moment he said nothing, but then he slowly began to speak, voice pensive yet strangely certain. Soothing.  “I understand. You’ve made a leap of faith.”

Oh yes, it certainly had been a leap, and she might never experience the landing.

“Any future deaths through his actions are on me. Any damages done to my people…”

Warmth pooled in his eyes; he stepped closer, close enough that she could see the golden patterns of his irises dancing in the light of her halo. “What of the death you prevented today? The future kindness you may have inspired? He has a choice to be better in the face of your example. What lessons could the Kobolds take from this, if not one of compassion?”

“I also killed their allies, many of their friends. I may have torn families apart. If Kobolds even have families…”

She didn’t even know anything about these creatures. For all she knew, they regularly ate their babies. Yet she had spared the self-pronounced king of them, let him wander free to build his state up somewhere else.

“If some race of giants had come to murder all my kin, I would’ve fought for revenge as hard as Ekun did. Maybe we’ll just end up being for the Kobolds what Trolls were for us.”

The warmth in his eyes didn’t waver in spite of her words. “Maybe. But then that is their pain to deal with and their choice to make. Compassion is strongest where pain blossoms into a desire to do better, but such good can only bloom when given the chance to right past wrongs. You spared the young Trolls, did you not? Let the Kobolds have a chance to do the same.”

How strongly he believed such things; how much he poured his heart and his soul into it. If only she could put her faith in those whose lives she had spared quite so easily… the thought of all the existences her choices ended every single day haunted her in waking and dreaming. She didn’t have the stomach to kill children; Trolls or otherwise. Someday that would come to bite her in the ass, she had no doubt about that.  

“I see your point, but I fear my bosses upstairs will not quite agree.”

That seemed to dull the tender shine in his eyes somewhat; he creased his brow and exhaled softly. His fingers weaved into a tangle in front of his chest, almost in a pleading gesture. “I wish you’d speak to me of your faith, Annaie. Share your troubles with me.”

She shook her head, although she could feel her resolve wavering in ways she could not quite let herself be comfortable with. “I cannot.”

Seeking the comfort of a cleric of another faith when she knew that future penance awaited her for this decision’s potential consequences was several shades of a bad idea. The creed was stern and unwavering; steadfast in the face of mortal failures. This sort of rigid adherence to the law was a force that a cleric of Sarenrae would be hard-pressed to understand.

He sighed, looking crestfallen. “As you wish. But know that I am ready to listen if you need me.”

“I know, Tristian.”

Of course he was. Even when no one else cared, Tristian always did. Few bothered to understand the trials of a Cleric because few found themselves so devoted to a single deity that the rules laid out in sacred scripts became their way of life, their creed. At least that aspect was something Tristian could likely understand better than most, even if his faith’s demands seemed to align much closer with the voice in his heart.  

How she envied him and his comfort with the aspects of his faith.

With the sun of the day waning, the only lights left within the fortress were the last dying torches and her bright halo. The halls seemed ghostly and abandoned, now that the denizens of Trobold had either perished or fled. What remained were the kingdom’s grisly spoils of war, the bodies of the fallen, and blood on the walls and floors.

A ghastly sight.

“Let’s set up camp outside,” she mumbled. “This place is giving me the creeps.”

* * *

Tristian volunteered for guard duty the night after the reign of Trobold came to an end. There were things for him to ponder, many members of the party were tired, Harrim’s mind had taken a considerable toll and Annaie was going to hold a vigil to reflect on her choices. A rather fancy description of staying up all night in prayer, really.

It primarily meant that she was going to be very, very tired come morning. He’d have a restoration spell prepared and hope that she’d be reasonable enough not to reject it.

Her relationship with her faith continued to elude him, but her struggles with her decisions painted an unfortunate picture. Months had passed since, but on the day they returned to Restov, she told him how she came to be a Cleric. Looking back, it likely was the greatest hint she had given him, and yet he had never connected the dots.

The birthmark, the visions, her frustration, her childhood at the temple… it wasn’t exactly a revelation to him, as he had known most of this for as long as he had known her, but he had never decided to sit down and ponder about it in any meaningful way.

She hadn’t had a choice in any of it. Mortals valued their ability to choose their fates. It gnawed at her.

Annaie was being guided by a higher power, that much was out of the question. Whether it was her deity herself or one of her servants… she may not even know herself. Many of the visions and dreams that the chosen received were cryptic and challenging in nature. He himself had never guided mortals by such means, but he had seen it done by his brethren. A divine guessing game, often frustrating for both sides, guided by few rules and high stakes.

The sky above them was clouded and dark; they had set up camp outside, in a somewhat shielded area of the fortress. The weather promised rain soon, but they had secured the camp with protection spells in preparation. His gaze nonetheless fixed on the unnerving sight of the towering clouds beyond the horizon.

His goddess was silent. Hers likely spoke to her in riddles. They both had been thrown into situations neither of them could hope to fix. Was there some kind of sadistic force at play, did fate have a penchant for ironic twists, or were they simply victims of a grand carnival of coincidences colliding in the wake of Nyrissa’s game?   

He watched her, although it hurt. It hurt because he couldn’t _reach out_ to her. He couldn’t hold her hand, ask her to share her pain, he couldn’t reassure her. Perhaps she would trust him more if she knew the truth, or perhaps she would trust him less. The thoughts now spiraled on and on without his doing until it made his head spin and he felt tired and dizzy.

Tristian knew no words for the processes that happened inside him when she was near. He shared her pain and her joy and her trials and triumphs, just as he shared her frustration as she knelt there, mouthing silent prayers to her goddess.

Although he knew not what exactly plagued her, he knew the pain of faith and yet he could not let her know. What would she think of him, a deva disconnected from his goddess – she, who fought tooth and nail to meet the expectations thrust upon her?

Would she be disappointed by his weakness, or see in him another herald of the forces that controlled her?

The night passed, shadowed by harrowing storms and rains, as if Erastil himself had spread his hand over the land. Tristian spent the hours in silence, at times praying, sometimes resting his eyes, but always remaining alert. He wouldn’t have been able to sleep if he had wanted to.

Come morning they would return to the capital. He had to find the means to express the things happening within, before it drove him insane.

* * *

Flowers. She sat between the blooming flowers, weaving her fingers through the colorful petals and the delicate stems. The scent of the gardens was sweet and serene, evergreen. If Mendev burned and crumbled to ashes, these gardens would still never fall.

“ _Little dove_ ,” he sang. The melodic, harmonious tones of the angels flowed into gentle sentences like water down the creek. Aasethiel, brighter, greater, shining. Warm. “ _I’ve returned._ ”

“ _Father, I missed you._ ” Celestial was like honey on her tongue, sweet, but familiar and fair. It belonged to her as the garden belonged to the petals and the petals belonged to the sun.

He hoisted her up effortlessly, one large hand on each side, and sat her down on his broad arm. She would be tall like him and she would be strong, she would face all the perils of this world and not waver. Like Eryil, she would hunt down demons and chase them back into the Abyss.

 _“Your dreams were always ambitious, little dove. The Abyss devoured me and so it shall devour you.”_ His voice, once kind and strong, fell apart in distorted, cacophonic wails that pierced the ear. The mighty wings burned until black and turned to reeking, choking ash.

She screamed and fell and the ground dissolved beneath her, all the petals became hands that clawed into her soul.

Her eyes flew open.  

_Mother of fucking-_

She coughed, gasped, chest too small for her aching lungs and hammering heart.

_A dream. Just a dream._

 The familiar sight of her bed’s canopy greeted her warmly. She laid on her back for a good five minutes, breathing like a fish on land.

Aasethiel. Father.

A despondent cadence soured the notes of his song. His death was all that was wrong with this world and all the worlds beyond it. He wasn’t just dead. His soul was gone. Trapped.

Had the memories returned to haunt her once again? Here she thought she had finally succeeded in locking them away forever.

 The life of the fort echoed through the open windows, restoring her to the present. Tuskdale. They were home. Returned from the south, tired but victorious. The people were beginning to open their shops, hurry to work and maintain their homes as they did every day, week after week, year after year.

It wouldn’t do for their Baroness to be lazy, would it?

She rolled out of bed and banished the past. Another day in the Stolen Lands awaited her.

* * *

The return to Tuskdale was uneventful, except perhaps for the fact that he was losing his mind.

Describing the processes going on inside him had become a… considerable challenge. It was hard to find the words for what he felt when she looked at him in just the right way, when he heard her speak, or when she was being-… apparently, sometimes just her existing was enough. To think of her and feel… to feel what?

If he could at least express it, but he couldn’t, not truly. Was it… was it affection? If mortals considered the concept so universal, then there had to be a language for it. They had language for _everything_. Not just them – almost all the knowledge of the multiverse could be found in texts, kept alive through books in massive libraries. Even in Heaven. Probably even in Hell. He had never checked, to be fair. The infernal realms weren’t very welcoming to him and his kin.

The knowledge he sought _had_ to be kept in books somewhere. In fact, he knew it was – because there were all these… stories that people always seemed to chatter about. Linzi spoke of romantic fiction all the time, and if there was such a thing, there had to be language to express it, and if that was the case, then there had to be a way for him to match these words with feelings, and finally understand if the chaos going on inside him was what mortals would commonly consider romantic love.

The problems began once he realized that he didn’t even know what to search for. He had once innocently scanned the market stands outside the fort for books to read, but soon found himself overwhelmed and confused by the storm of titles, genres, and authors in the fiction section. When Tessie had come to ask him what sort of literature he was looking for, his courage had quickly left him, and he excused himself by responding that he’d just been curious. She knew him because he frequently asked her for literature on specific divine and arcane topics; somehow the thought of asking her for something as frivolous as fiction had made him bolt.

This was ridiculous. He was a priest of Sarenrae and the barony’s Councilor, and he was looking for… love stories? If word of this got out, he feared the repercussions for Annaie’s reputation. Not to mention the reaction if his divine brethren ever caught wind of… _any_ of this…

Tristian had scarcely found himself so aware of the opinions of others, but it was becoming an increasingly relevant topic in his life. He could no longer speak only for himself, as everything he said and did also affected the reputation of his Baroness; Annaie, the last person in the multiverse he wanted to hurt.

No, he couldn’t go out and _buy_ such things. But he could, perhaps, ask the one person whose sole purpose in life seemed to be telling stories and reading books. They happened to have a bard at their disposal.

It seemed like an excellent battleplan for a while, right up until the point he stood in front of the door to Linzi’s room, awkwardly digging his nails into his loose sleeves. Linzi was a bard, they were always all about stories and romance and the like. Surely she had to know one thing or another about the topic. At least… some books he could read. Something to help him out.

But somehow… this was hard. It was really hard. What could he say that wouldn’t make this far more awkward than it already was? Before he could come to any relevant conclusion, the door decided to move on its own, nearly hitting him in the face in the process.

Linzi just about waltzed into him before she noticed his presence, blinking at him with eyes comically wide. “Tristian! Do you need anything?”

… And this was exactly what he had hoped to avoid. To be caught while he wasn’t ready for conversation.

Linzi was frequently all over the place in ways that he almost found mildly distressing at times, but he wouldn’t hold it against her any more than he could hold it against the Azata to be unpredictable. She waved for him to enter before he had even made his intentions known, beaming at him all the while. Her energy was commendable if a little intimidating.

He awkwardly shuffled into the room, valiantly shaking off the feeling of certain doom,  before he closed the door behind him and stubbornly ignored the notion that it resembled the sealing of his fate. No one else needed to hear about… this.

There were _so_ many books. And paper. So much paper. Where did she even _sleep_?

The astonishment distracted him for a blissful moment before the purpose of this little visit returned to him with all the force of a gale. Linzi. Right. The Halfling bard still stared at him with large eyes, wavering between puzzlement and impatience.

“I was, uhm… hoping you could help me with figuring something out,” he mumbled awkwardly, folding his hands which, he realized with chagrin, had become awfully sticky with sweat.  

The girl blinked at him owlishly for a moment, then her eyes widened even further – Sarenrae spare him the details of how that was even possible – and a mischievous smile swiftly spread her lips. “Oooh, I think I know what this is about!”

Hopefully, she _didn’t_ , because that would mean that this had become… obvious, for lack of a better word. And that meant he had made this a public matter. As the barony’s Councilor, he had come to understand that public matters could be… problematic. People talked and talking people were interested people. Interested people weren’t good.

Especially not if they _all_ were vastly more knowledgeable on the topic than he was.

On the other hand, this was Linzi. Perhaps Annaie had simply told her. They _were_ friends, after all. Yes, that seemed somewhat less intimidating of an interpretation. Perhaps this wouldn’t have been quite so bad, if Linzi hadn’t decided to follow up with a question. “Do you need help with some more _passionate_ subjects?” she grinned, winking at him.

_Oh sweet Sarenrae, have mercy on me…_

“I, I-“ oh his face was burning crimson, it was awful, dear lords in Heaven – “I just, I am trying to understand some things, I thought you might…” he soon trailed off, realizing that he was just burning brighter and brighter with every word. What was he even doing here? How had this seemed like a good idea at _any_ point? “Do you have some… books you’d recommend or… some advice…” His voice got smaller, falling apart akin to tracks weathered by the wind, and then died completely not unlike a pitiful animal dying in a ditch.

He certainly felt like one right now.

Linzi made a demonstrative ‘hmmm’ noise and tapped her chin before darting around the corner without a warning; he heard drawers being opened, mild cursing, things getting knocked over. Then the bard returned to his company and proudly presented a moderately heavy book that had obviously seen a lot of handling over the years.  

“Here, read this. It’s the best you can get on the subject.” While it didn’t quite manifest, he could hear the excited giggle in the subtle tones of her voice, and her eyes gleamed in a foreboding manner.

 _Nights in Katapesh_ , the cover read in graceful letters; the rest of the cover was bare, revealing only the author and nothing else. The book was relatively light in his hands when he took it from her, certainly nowhere near as heavy as his sacred script of Sarenrae. Could something so short really explain something as complicated as love?

 He opened the first page and was greeted by a… content warning, for lack of a better word. His face burned up as the words became clear to him and he quickly closed the book. Whatever this… treatise was, his stomach suddenly felt ready to drop through the floorboards.

He shoved the book into his bag, thanked the bard as quickly as possible and basically fled the scene, escaping from the place of his embarrassing crime.

* * *

When she spotted him reading a book at camp, she couldn’t help being curious. Tristian didn’t seem one for fiction; if he read at all, he was usually deep in divine scripture (his prayer book to be precise) or archive documents, but not the entertaining kind of literature. Unless he found repeatedly reading sacred texts about Sarenrae entertaining - it wouldn’t really surprise her if he did, but that was kind of stretching the definition.

As usual, they were out and about; braving the journey to Varnhold, to be precise, now that the Troll problem had been dealt with and fate had granted them a moment of reprieve. Maintaining positive relations with the neighboring baronies was a matter of importance, although she could imagine nicer things than spending weeks trekking through a mountainside for what – she could only assume, at least – would amount to nothing more than some nice conversation.

Alas, Maegar Varn had invited them and she didn’t like being rude.  

Tristian wasn’t necessarily one for idle conversation; if they camped for longer than just a night and most of her companions found either means of entertainment or tasks to keep busy, he could often be found at the edge of the camp minding his own business. Meditating, praying, sometimes just sitting there and staring… it was as fascinating as it was serene. She spent an unnecessary amount of observing him and his habits, to the point her friends made fun of it.

She did wonder if he had ever noticed.

Considering this little obsession of hers, of course Annaie on and off watched him reading this mystery fiction as he was sitting at the edge of camp like a Kobold with something precious to hide. His range of expressions was impressive; between displeased frowns, mildly scandalized scowls and confused head-tilts she was beginning to get the impression that his literature was generating more questions for him than it was producing answers.

 It was something to behold, really. She spent a good hour in camp just watching him instead of doing what she was _supposed_ to be doing, which was being a good leader and checking up on their travel supplies, before she finally decided to sneak up on the distracted priest’s back, stretching her neck a little awkwardly to peek over his shoulder. He was _so_ immersed in his literature that he didn’t even notice her presence until she was almost breathing into his ear.

A few words almost immediately caught her eye, stringing themselves together into a picture painted by familiarity rather than comprehension.

Blazing skin. Desire in her voice.

Was that-

_Oh. Oh, fair Lady Valor’s grace._

Her hand quickly covered her mouth, hiding the grin that threatened to split her face apart.

Tristian, _no_. She had to hold back the laughter bubbling in her throat, fueled partially by imagining what kind of situation had led him to waste his time on such a literary masterpiece. He could barely comprehend the idea of romance and here he was, reading… that. Surely this wasn’t his idea of a proper entrance into the world of fiction?

Her sweet companion hastily shut the book when he noticed her presence; she felt a little guilty now to have intruded on him immersed in such sensitive material, but at the same time he had brought it on himself to an extent, by reading such a… _fascinating_ piece of fiction in the presence of other people. Octavia knew what she was doing when she read such things in the middle of a busy tavern, but Tristian? He seemed barely aware of the existence of the genre, much less how people would react to it.

“Oh, I- I didn’t notice you there, Annaie.” The poor man seemed more than a little startled and awkwardly put the book away as if to wash his hands clean of the crime of reading it.

“Interesting literature,” she commented, still fighting the smile even as she folded her hands behind her back. Tristian quickly got off the ground, wordlessly straightened his clothes with his hands and averted his shy gaze for as long as he could. His face was just a shade off crimson. A little more and he’d resemble a lobster.

“It’s… it’s some… treatise I got from Linzi. She recommended it to me for-… She said it’s the best you can get about… the passions.” Oh, he was stammering, the poor thing. She did feel kind of bad for putting him on the spot like this.

 _Linzi_. Of course. She’d have to have a little talk with the lively bard, it seemed. Giving Tristian such trite drivel when he had most likely asked for a little help or love advice seemed… _excessively_ off the mark.

The poor man looked so embarrassed, she had to hold back the urge to pull him into a big hug; something told her that touching him right now was _not_ a good idea at all. He might fold in on himself and turn into a portal to another dimension.

_The passions… oh, Tristian…_

“I probably just don’t understand anything about literature,” he muttered, gaze downcast like a chastised child. Perhaps she was the worst person to catch him in this state, considering their history.

“It has some... exciting descriptions,” she noted, endlessly fighting to keep the grin off her face. Oh, he really didn’t deserve to feel mocked. The concept made him struggle on a good day, how would he know to separate the outlandish ideas within these books from reality?

But really, who could blame her? The fact that he was reading such literature meant that he was thinking about what had transpired between them.

The priest blushed even further, although that frankly seemed impossible. “You think so? What’s described here, it all sounds…” he paused and made a face of pure distaste, “so unnatural. And pretentious! As if it’s about venerating a deity, not… communicating with mortals…”

Now she couldn’t help but laugh for real.

“I suppose, in a way it might seem like that. Why would you read such drivel, Tristian? Nights in Katapesh is… ah, a little infamous, to say the least.” She didn’t bother to hide her distaste; as a connoisseur of romantic fiction, pointless porn like that was hardly up to her standards.

He bit his cheek. “I thought I could wrap my head around some… issues. No, not issues – problems… that are bothering me. To find the words for something I cannot express.”

She wasn’t really sure what the difference between an issue and a problem was to him, but alright. She’d take it. Whatever might get him to evaluate their relationship. Or lack thereof. She hadn’t given up on him yet.

_What are you trying to express by reading romantic fiction, dear?_

“But instead I only became more confused.”

Yeah, she could certainly see the confusion, it was pretty visible on his face. He always seemed a little bit confused anyway, but now he seemed confused and also a tad scandalized. He half-chuckled, half-coughed, averting his gaze before he moved to speak again. “Sometimes I admire how easily you choose the words for what’s on your mind.”

 How he struggled to understand something so very basic was… pure in a way. She didn’t know what kind of sheltered life he must’ve led, to grow up with so little contact with the concept of romantic love. Even she, a supposed chosen of Iomedae cooped up at the temple all her life, had found the time to build an impressive personal collection of – admittedly sometimes rather trite – romantic fiction. The idea of romance wasn’t unknown to priests, and she found it hard to believe that the sacred halls of _Sarenrae_ of all deities were so unfamiliar with the concept that a child would grow up with a complete lack of understanding of it.

No, something didn’t quite add up here, but it was hard to pinpoint it. He was definitely a priest of Sarenrae, there was no reason to doubt that. She still wondered if he was an Aasimar… perhaps even a Half-Celestial. Hiding his nature for reasons unknown. He had denied the existence of such heritage to her, he didn’t seem to have any of the typical traits associated with it, but he still looked… strange. Touched by outside forces. Growing up with extraplanars would perhaps explain his lack of knowledge. And it would certainly explain why Kanerah thought him to be a liar. She just wished he’d be willing to confide in her…

 _Hah. Hypocritical_. _You’re not telling him about yourself, are you?_

Stupid conscience. She angrily brushed it aside.

For the moment, it would have to be enough to relieve him of his current troubles. She sighed and leaned her head back, running a lithe hand through her hair as she steeled herself for the conversation ahead. An encouraging smile danced on her lips regardless; he didn’t deserve to feel ridiculed.

“You always try to put something in words that can’t be described.”

He seemed even more confused by this, brows creased, expression sort of switching back and forth between a half-scowl and a frown. “What are you talking about? The greatest wisdom of Golarion is expressed in the words of numerous books – and even the divine mercy of Sarenrae finds its reflection in her sacred text…”

_Please stop inserting your goddess into every single conversation…_

Tristian was the last person she had ever expected to see expressing indignation, even if it was overall fairly tame in magnitude. Her measure was the average nobleman from the surrounding baronies and kingdoms; he could hardly compare in the face of such competition.

Annaie didn’t even know where to start here. It was so difficult to put into words… ironically. Or maybe not so ironic as much as it was simply the logical conclusion, given that the inability to put sentiments into words was the whole root of the problem. Maybe she should just show him - it was a gamble, but with a good chance of paying off, considering the shy looks she caught him throwing her way, and the fact that he had gone out of his way to. Read a book about it.

_Gods, Tristian. You sweet idiot._

Her heart made all sorts of leaps at the thought, perhaps trying to evade the storm of butterflies taking flight. Worst cliché of all time, but oddly appropriate regardless.

His eyes widened, startled; he’d anticipated her intentions, yet didn’t withdraw when her fingers gently curled around his palm. Instead he waited, quietly observing the consequences of her bold advance.

_It’s not that bad, see?_

“What you seek cannot be found on the pages of a book, Tristian.” The words that came out of her mouth seemed unguided and confused, a mere echo of the chaotic energies inside her. She tried to smile, but the mechanics of it eluded her.

His gaze fell on their hands while his fingers gingerly closed around her palm, only a trace of hesitance in the gentle flow of his gestures. The heart beating in her chest quickly picked up the pace, drumming a little faster against the confines of her ribcage. Oh, this was a gamble because of _her_ , she realized with mild, startled amusement. Not because of him.

To think that just holding his hand would be so nice…

 “Words can only ever emulate the feelings we experience,” she breathed, voice calm and sweet, almost subdued. Never had she heard herself speak like this. It was almost scary, like losing control of herself.

Something changed in his eyes, growing warmer and softer, dulled but in a good way. Soothed, calmed. The confusion seemed to fade from his tender features along with it, leaving behind only a sense of familiar serenity. “You have such warm hands… Like you are full of sunshine.”

Her stomach made a somersault and tumbled down to her knees. That voice – she could spend eternity listening to it, and then some. Have him talk her to sleep. Wake up to it in the morning. Follow her through the darkness and back into the light and soothe her all the while.

_Look at this romantic. And he doesn’t even know._

He didn’t know, he truly didn’t know just how sweet and _attractive_ he actually was. Just by virtue of being the most wonderful man on all of Golarion. The kindest, the warmest, the softest-

She couldn’t let him go. She just couldn’t. Not if there was a chance, just the idea of a chance. She’d never find someone like him again and the very thought was dreadful. _Lonely_. It made her heart twist into all sorts of knots that tied up in her chest and pulled apart her ribcage.

“That probably sounded as terrible as the book,” he mused with a faint smile, a distant sense of irony weighing on his voice.

She raised her hand to his cheek and gently brushed against the soft and pale skin; it was warm to the touch. His natural warmth, but also the fact that heat had pooled in his cheeks for the majority of this conversation. “Not at all,” she whispered. How she wished she could put all her sentiments into words, pour all those emotions onto him. Make him understand.

For a long moment, he stared, simply stared at her, eyes wide and frozen. But then his eyelids fell shut and his hand covered hers against his cheek. He turned his head, gently kissing the inside of her palm, whispering warmly against her skin. “Full of sunshine…”

 _Woah_.

 _Steady_.

The touch of his lips turned her insides to cake batter; she closed her eyes and forcefully exhaled, hoping to quell the storm he had unwittingly set off within her. There really were no words in any language to describe these feelings; none of the books she had read had even come close.

Why even bother trying?

She could have remained like this forever and only the desire to be even _closer_ would’ve seemed like a good reason to come apart, but Tristian broke from the moment soon after, eyes wide and full of fright. He pushed her hand away, albeit softly, and she suddenly felt cold and alone.

Her strong reaction had frightened him.

“Forgive me, Forgive me, I- I’m out of line!”

_No-_

But he wouldn’t let her speak.

“I pray to Sarenrae that you aren’t angry with me-“

“If I were angry at you, your goddess wouldn’t be able to make me less so,” she hissed dryly, voice sharper than it really needed to be. She couldn’t pretend that she wasn’t annoyed, although she knew it wasn’t fair to him. The frustration had made her self-restraint crack.  

Her response seemed to make him pause for a moment, eyes uncharacteristically wide; as if the idea that Sarenrae wasn’t capable of influencing her decisionmaking in any way was some grand revelation to him.

Still, his gaze remained downcast. He only dared to glance up at her briefly, almost shyly. “Believe me, I care very much for you.”

Ha. She didn’t doubt that, but at least he had made this statement about his _own_ feelings, without invoking his goddess for it. If she didn’t think that there was some sort of romantic sentiment there, she wouldn’t be so pushy. Respecting rejection was one thing and she was willing to oblige, but he had never truly and blatantly told her that he had no feelings for her, only vague excuses for why his company wasn’t a good idea while sending her a whole host of mixed signals. Like this – the goddamn _mother_ of mixed signals. More than anything, it cemented her belief that he was simply afraid.  

Fear, that she could deal with. Fear could be overcome.

Damnit. The moment had felt so nice…  

She wanted to touch his lips again. Over and over. It was yearning that crept into her bones, pulling her apart at the seams. Now that she had glimpsed bliss, nothing less would suffice.

Not just his lips. All of him. She’d shower him with love and affection, and try to take all this fear that he seemed to hold under his heart away. She would _. She would_. She just had to find out how. 

* * *

“Annaie, may I enter?”

She was bent over reports of guard patrols along the road to Restov when Tristian knocked on the door to her office and gingerly announced himself. His tone generally made it easy to discern whether he was coming for personal reasons or business, mostly because the latter usually happened without him sounding like he wanted to die.

No death wish here, which meant business. Unsurprising, since he had avoided her like the plague since that one accidental hand-kiss. Frustrating.

“Come in.”

The priest fought his way through the heavy door with an intimidating stack of papers lodged under his arm. “Jhod asked me to bring you the results of the research about the village at the edge of the marsh.”

Her face fell. Right. Nyta and Callistropsia…

She took the stack off his hands and dropped it right in the middle of her desk, where it then sat menacingly, staring at her with all the evil energy of a pile of documents. One may be tempted to think that such a thing was ridiculous, but only if still left mercifully untainted by the harrowing experience of sorting through paperwork.

Tristian coughed. “That’s it.”

Oh. He was waiting to be dismissed.

“You know,” she droned, “I don’t expect anything to have come out of this. Somehow it never does.”

The first page contained the conclusion of the research; it confirmed her suspicions with painfully mundane certainty. Nothing could be done for the remnants of the village and the region was irreversibly tainted.

Sobering.

Tristian somehow managed a faint smile regardless. “I do have some good news, on that note. Bittersweet, perhaps, but Callistropsia may have returned to the First World after her death. The borders between the worlds are thin in your realm.”

She frowned. “Wouldn’t she still be cursed?”

The priest paused for a moment, pondering before he spoke again. “She may be. We can’t be sure. Either way, the denizens of her home plane may be better equipped to help her than we were.”

Nice as the thought was, she couldn’t quite believe it. If only she had his energy for endless optimism…

“Let’s hope so,” she replied with a sigh, then pulled a folder from the shelf behind her. The research on curses was quickly becoming an unmanageable pile and reading Jhod’s chicken scratch was a challenge of its own. Perhaps Erastil had rejected him because of that handwriting of his. He should learn to write like Tristian – neat and elegant and readable and-

How badly she wanted to hold his hand, it was ridiculous. Perhaps he was running from her because of her endless, obsessive _staring_ in his general direction whenever she entered his immediate vicinity. His hand, just let her hold his damn hand…

“Your Grace,” he coughed. “May I leave?”

Either he had gotten good at reading the mood, or running away had simply turned into a reflex at this point.

“Actually, I wanted to give you something.”

Her priest looked at her somewhat apprehensively but said nothing to discourage her. Good. He didn’t have a choice anyway.  

She bent beneath her desk and pulled a canvas bag from the bottommost shelf. Her entire office seemed to consist of nothing but drawers and shelves, with papers, documents, even more papers, some books, broken quills… Hopefully no one would ever get the idea of setting her fort on fire.

The bag soon changed hands, solemnly offered to her visitor with a shy smile.

“Thought it might help you find the words.”

He blinked and stared, then the meaning suddenly seemed to dawn on him and he blushed. Fiercely. Dear Lady Valor, he blushed so _very_ fiercely.

“If it’s like the last one-“

“It’s not!” she interrupted, voice a _little_ higher than usual. “Look, I don’t read that stuff. This is my favorite book.”

Another blink. More staring.

“Oh.”

The significance seemed to sink in finally.

He opened his mouth to speak, visibly baffled. “You-“

“ _Don’t_ say anything.”

“…Alright.”

The priest nodded a stiff goodbye, then he turned on his heel and left, unsurprisingly obedient to her barked response. Annaie sank into her chair and buried her face in her hands, sighing.

She had willingly revealed her love for romantic fiction to another soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels highly disjointed to me, mostly because I shuffled some stuff around and cut it off sooner than I had meant to originally 
> 
> The conversation where you catch him reading that silly book is actually one of my favorites, but it wasn't easy to find the space for it. 
> 
> Hold on to the happiness because bloom season is coming and it's gonna be explosive.


	4. Season of Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the sweet comments. It always makes me really happy to read those, so feel free to comment, even if it doesn't seem important to you. Even if it's just a scene you liked, or didn't like. Chances are I'll die a happy death reading it. 
> 
> Anyways, have fun with this chapter. I listened to too much music to list it, but Varulven by Garmarna may be a good direction to go in

* * *

Her favorite book.

Was romantic fiction.

It still hadn’t sunken in completely by the time he returned to his chambers, the book still awkwardly pressed against his chest. The bag adequately hid the goods he was carrying, allowing him to conceal the object they had exchanged, but his heart uncomfortably hammered against the hard surface and made him doubly aware of what had transpired.

She read romantic fiction.

The shelf in her room… how much more of it was there? Was this the only one? Her favorite? Her most cherished? She never spoke of these things, as if they were a closely guarded secret. How had she… how did a Cleric of Iomedae find such a hobby?

Until evening, he stored the bag away in his room, far away from his curious eyes so it could not tempt him with its secrets. Work had become surprisingly difficult with the book on his mind, but he valiantly pushed through, until he had found an opportunity to wrap up for the day.

He didn’t even notice how hasty his steps had grown until he nearly stumbled down the stairs to his chambers.

What kind of book was it? What story had captivated her enough to be branded her favorite? The curiosity was almost scathing, pushing him to hurry through the halls. He went through his usual evening routine with unfamiliar urgency, undressing, washing and changing into his far more casual nightwear before he allowed himself to look at the treasure he’d been given.

When he finally gazed upon it, the cover seemed shockingly mundane. The edges were terribly worn, the back broken a thousand times. Many pages had dog-ears, others were marked by colorful tags, and notes dotted the edges. All this he saw before he could even look at the cover. The lettering was faded and old and the drawing had lost much of its shine and colors, but he recognized the shape of a silvery dragon twisting through stylistic clouds.

_Moonscale._

If not for the fact that it was a mere book, he would’ve thought she had given him a piece of her soul to hold. The aura of something deeply personal and beloved surrounded every flaw, every page. Every tag and every dog-ear, every faded stain. Every scrawled note sticking out from the edges.

It had to be old. So very old. How long had she held on to this book, rereading it over and over until the binding fell apart?

The back cracked and moaned as he opened it, asking him to be far more gentle than he had ever been with a book before; even the holy scriptures of his beloved Lady had seemingly seen less wear and tear.

The first page held nothing except for someone’s faded handwriting, looping and wide. He strained his eyes trying to read it for a good minute until the nature of these strange words suddenly dawned on him like a cold waterfall.

Celestial. Someone had written a personal dedication in Celestial.

The horror that followed was cold and paralyzing, for he realized that he hadn’t read his beloved language in so long, he struggled to comprehend the script - only slowly the letters came together and danced for him as they used to, flowing into words and words into the familiar song of the angels and their kin.

 

_For my treasured Annaie.  
Happy Birthday, little dove._

_In love, Aasethiel._

Who would write something so simple in Celestial? Few mortals could comprehend it, and even fewer knew to speak or write it.

… Yet to many Aasimar, it came naturally. Annaie would know it, had perhaps learned to speak it at an early age. He felt guilty for having seen them, and yet he wanted to covet these words like a rare treasure.  

Something slid out from between the pages and dropped into his lap. He shut the book and carefully laid it aside – he couldn’t let any harm come to it, he would never forgive himself. The piece in his lap looked like folded, crumbling parchment, old and worn. It almost seemed to fight against the force of his fingers prying it open, valiantly holding on to the secrets within.

The handwriting was immediately recognizable, the same elegant loops and arches. Once again he was faced with the song-like words of his own language painting their sounds onto the parchment. The entire letter had been written in Celestial.

His heart sank, and then it fell and fell and fell, somehow finding no bottom to crash into. She had to have forgotten this letter within the book; Annaie did not share her history with others. Never would she let him get hold of such memories. Never.

She couldn’t know that he was fluent in Celestial, but he doubted she’d ever even risk it. Knowing that… he’d return it to her, immediately. This wasn’t a matter to question. She had accidentally given him access to her past. Much as he wished to know her secrets and the ghosts that haunted her, he wished to hear these things on her own terms. Not because she left a letter in a book.

Tristian slid into his slippers, folded the letter and grabbed his lantern from his night-stand. The fort was dark at this hour, and he had no desire to walk face-first into a wall.

She answered his knock so late into the night wearing only a nightgown and looking somewhat confused by his sudden disturbance. Perhaps, a voice nagged, perhaps this could’ve waited until morning – but he couldn’t stand the thought of having that letter in his room. The very idea made him feel filthy.

Silly, perhaps. He didn’t care.

Her tired, sluggish blink spoke of a person who had prepared to meet with slumber in the not too distant future, but despite her confusion, she greeted him with a faint smile. “What’s the matter?”

“I found this in your book.”

The letter suddenly felt strangely heavy between his fingers, held up and thrown into focus like an exhibit in a museum. Her eyes grew wide and flashed wildly with recognition, and something far worse. Horror. Her nostrils flared as she forcefully exhaled and all the blood drained from her face.  

“I didn’t read it. I came here the moment I realized what it was,” he breathed quickly.

 _But I could have_ , was the unspoken implication.

It didn’t seem to matter; she gingerly plucked the parchment from his fingers, gazed at it for a silent moment and finally sighed. “Thank you for not reading it, although I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

He hastily shook his head. “It wouldn’t feel right.”

A faint smile tugged at her lips. “You’re too honest, Tristian.”

_I wish I were. All you know of me is lies._

She remained silent for a few heartbeats, then she gestured inside with an elaborate nod. “Let me be honest in return.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, baffled. Somehow he didn’t feel quite comfortable with walking into her quarters in a nightshirt – not after reading that terrible treatise. She didn’t seem willing to elaborate through an open door and they spent another awkward moment gazing at each other before he finally chose to follow her and closed the door behind him with a thud. Closing doors had begun to turn into a harrowing experience as of late, trapping him in infinitely overwhelming situations. Worse; whenever he passed the gate to her personal domain, he felt as if intruding on something terribly intimate and private, like stepping on another being’s soul.

In the gentle light of the chandelier, he determined that her golden hair was still damp, clinging to her scalp and forehead. Droplets of water trailed down her neck, drawing his gaze for longer, _far_ longer than they had any right. It all seemed so… mundane, so removed from the life of adventuring and hunting beasts and running a barony. A young woman getting dressed for bed, nothing more, nothing less.

It tugged at his chest in the strangest ways.

When she finally deemed it right to speak, her voice was dull and distant. “I think you’ll want to know who this Aasethiel is, don’t you?”

 “I do,” he replied with a frown. She fixed an intense stare on him.

Crap. He hadn’t even flinched at the name.

_Don’t bring it up._

“But on your own terms, Annaie.”

Her lips twitched. Something warm danced in her eyes - somewhere beyond the sullen shadow - and reflected on her tender face; they were their own little suns, vibrant and fierce and full of light. The happier she was, the more the light within them danced. And yet, the more pain she felt, the more furious the fire grew.

If he could put into words how she looked at him… but she had shown him how little words truly conveyed, how much of their reality was beyond the reach of their language.  Let him frame the memory of her expression, emboss it into eternity. Most things were forgotten with time, but he never wanted to forget her.

“On my terms, then,” she replied with an exhausted sigh. The letter swiftly disappeared in a locked box on her desk; he caught only a brief glance of the contents beyond the iron lid. Parchment. Letters, likely. Many more of them.

Memories.

She _wanted_ to share. Needed to. She didn’t, because it frightened her. He wished she didn’t have to be afraid, but he was a liar. Such a wish could only end in calamity for her soul.

“It’s not hard to guess, really. I doubt the letter would’ve told you that much. I honestly forgot it was in there.”

He could tell she wasn’t lying, but it was the principle that mattered to him. The letter could’ve contained nothing but cooking recipes, and he still wouldn’t have read it.

“Aasethiel was my father. He was a Half-Celestial general from Mendev who served in the Fourth Crusade.”

Even as the lid closed and the lock clicked, her hand remained atop the little metal chest, resting perhaps on memories old and forgotten.

A Half-Celestial. Of course. Aasimar could be born through the mere presence of celestial energies, but Half-Celestials were genuine offspring of the outer planes. The blood of good extraplanars – Angels, but also their cousins, the Archons, the Azata, the Agathions, and many even stranger ones – coursed through their veins. They were as rare as they were cherished. If her father had been one, he had no doubt held a position of high esteem in the crusader state of Mendev. If Aasimar seemed to harbor only a touch of the other-worldly, Half-Celestials constantly walked the thin line between this world and the other, always caught between mortality and divinity.

Still, it didn’t answer the question of their linguistic choices, even if it clarified the mechanics of it. “Why did he write to you in Celestial?”

Her lips twitched. “Just a game. It was our ‘secret code’. He liked the language and I was one of the few who could understand it well enough to read and write letters. When I was young… “

The words suddenly seemed to fail her. For a painfully long moment, her eyes just fixed on the old box and lamented these wounds frayed and unhealed. She bit her cheek, then parted her lips, voice far harder and sharper than before.

“I’ve been told that I didn’t just babble in Common. Supposedly I spoke some weird jumbled mess between it and Celestial, but I don’t remember. Just a story they always liked to tell everyone who bothered to ask. Or didn’t ask. Didn’t matter, really.”

He exhaled. There was much he could’ve said, and yet nothing that seemed right. She wouldn’t have wanted to hear it, and all else was unnecessary. They both knew what she was, but he was only beginning to understand how much her heritage had affected her. Of course she had longed for someone who could _possibly_ understand.

She had latched on to him in her search for familiarity and somehow found a kindred spirit in other ways. It wasn’t _fair_. If they’d met in any other situation… maybe he could’ve…

No. It was pointless to think about.

 In the face of it all, he could only continue to ask questions and hope she’d be willing to answer. Hope that it would unravel some of the pain. “Did your father teach you how to speak it?”

Something in her eyes died. “My father only visited a few times a year at most. I learned Celestial all on my own.”

The gloomy shadow on her face harkened of unforgiven abandonment and festering sadness; the wounds of a child that had never been allowed to heal.

 “Where was he?”

“Fighting,” she muttered. “Surprise, he died. The letter you found was the last one I ever got. I was fourteen when he got ripped to shreds by Khorramzadeh himself. Should’ve seen me, I was so mad. Tore all my robes apart, and the bedsheets and the curtains. They made me sew it all back up.” She crossed her arms and chuckled, but it was the ugliest, saddest thing he’d ever heard. There was no mirth in it at all, almost like the Nymph when she laughed at her own pain. “Just imagine, an angry little pipsqueak, swearing revenge on a demon lord of the Worldwound. A _Balor_. Like he wouldn’t have turned me into fine paste with a flick of his wrist.”

Her nails dug into her own skin. “What was I gonna do? Angrily squeal him to death?”

Somehow, his tongue felt lame in his mouth, incapable of forming all the words that his mind furiously threw at him. He should’ve said something, _anything_ , but his body failed him – now, of all the times to be weak.

 What was wrong with him? He was a priest, and not just that – a deva of Sarenrae, the deity whose very essence was compassion. Had he forgotten how to treat the frayed edges of sorrow just because he no longer glowed? The art of healing was two-fold, and a good priest knew how to soothe the wounds within souls as much as broken bones and torn flesh.

She shook her head, retreated from the box and crossed her arms. Pulling up her defenses. Guarding. Watching. “Enough. I think you should go. It’s late.”

He had failed. Her brows furrowed, face haunted by unknown pain. The moment had passed and she was back to withdrawing, hiding; there was so much she had never said, so much she needed to let go.

“Good night,” he said softly. One heartbeat, then another – her golden eyes rested on his face, warm, yet so very sad.

How he wished she didn’t have to be sad.

* * *

 The book was heavy in his arms.

Afternoon. He had decided to take a break from dust and paperwork. It was sunny outside, always his favorite kind of weather, although the days were getting colder and colder. All the more reason to enjoy the sun while he still could.

 Excellent time for reading.

The feeling of doing something forbidden haunted him while he shuffled through the garden areas of the fort, looking for an appropriate place to read his new literature. Annaie had caught him last time because he’d been careless, and while that interaction had ended in a fairly… benign manner, he wanted to avoid any future instances of people sneaking up on his back.

Yet when he had finally found an appropriately secluded place to sit down and read his book, he suddenly found himself doing nothing but staring at it in his lap. It would be easy to open it. Moving a hand was all it took, quite literally.

And yet he just stared.

“Forgot how to use your hands, Skylark?”

The piercing voice instantly froze every drop of blood in his veins.

Silk-clad hands enveloped the book in his lap and pulled it from his grasp with languid ease. The crumbling, old pages cracked and the worn back groaned as she held on to the cover with long fingers and cruelly left the insides to dangle above ground.

“Such a terrible taste. She really did turn your little head. I didn’t think it possible.”

He couldn’t express the horror. No. _No_.

Not the book, _give it back, give it back you **hag** -_

“Oh my. Is that _anger_ I spy?”

Nyrissa smirked with all the grace of a cat on the prowl. The blood in his veins went both hot and cold, coursing ever faster as his heart hammered on.

“Just for that, I think I’ll be keeping this.”

No, no, she _couldn’t_ -

“Give it back,” he demanded, but it came out weak, so faint and timid that she simply laughed in his face.

“Such a great warrior you are, my Skylark.”

A flick of her wrist, and the book had disappeared, never to be seen again. Annaie’s book. She had entrusted a piece of her soul to him, and he lost it. _He lost it_.  He had lost her book. Her father’s book. Her dead father’s book.

_No. Nononono-_

“Now, now, don’t fret. I have need of you, my dear.”

He didn’t want to. He wanted none of this. Not like this. Nyrissa could go to _Hell_. To the Abyss. To Abbadon. Anywhere else.

And yet… yet he complied, with a weak and shaky voice. “What will you have me do, my lady?”

Like a good dog. He should be the Hound and Annaie the Skylark. She was beautiful and she could sing and fly away. He was leashed like a true Hound, made to hunt and retrieve the spoils. Stupid Nymph had it all wrong. 

The mere sight of her made him feel sick. He stared into the distance; past her and her ugliness and her smirk and her hateful eyes.

“The Bloom is about to begin. I’ve got a little project for you to take care of in the meantime.”

He dared to glance at her; there was nothing there. Just a black hole of bitterness.

The bloom… just another of his deeds coming home to roost. He knew not what she had planned this time, but he feared. More than ever in his long existence, he feared. Monsters tearing apart the entire realm, sprouting from the tiniest seeds… his mouth went dry at the thought. It could only mean one thing.

“Are you going to destroy the barony?” he asked, voice hoarse. Truly, he had known she would come for Annaie someday, but somehow he had been content to tell himself that such times were still a long way off.

She laughed, bell-like, and yet sharp and bitter. “Worried for your little soulmate, Skylark?”

She wouldn’t answer him… no, why would she? The question was pointless anyway. This was his purpose, what he had come here for. To destroy her nation. Maybe, if he could at least get her out of this alive… return her to her home in Mendev, where she ought to be.

_So she can die fighting demons instead?_

Nyrissa cared not for his anxiety. Her slender fingers brushed against his chin, cold and sharp. “My Hound has been good and faithful, but all dogs die before their masters.”

 _She is not your dog_.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding almost painfully, crushing between them every word his mind spat at him. He could not talk back, not now, not ever. Not with his soul, his freedom at stake. His, and perhaps even hers…

He couldn’t let her fall with him. Not like this. Not before she had ever learned to fly. There was so much out there for her, so much to live for, so many much more worthy causes to die for. So many books to read and people to love.

“Some have outlived their masters, my lady.”

For a moment, he feared she’d strike, but she merely chuckled bitterly in return. “And were they not all sad and broken creatures for it, doomed to never love as dearly as they had again, my Skylark? Have you not seen how familiar the path she walks is? Go ahead, let her outlive her cause! See how she breaks apart over it if you wish to see her suffer that much.”

_My cause is my life. The barony is my cause. I care for little else._

He swallowed, but his throat was so dry that he choked on it. Her cold grasp on his chin faded, and yet he still felt it all the same.

“I have revealed myself to a man named Ruthgert, whose frightful and submissive nature shall make for an excellent faithful. Don’t you agree?”

He clenched his jaw, stubbornly refusing to respond to her jab.

“The Kingdom of the Cleansed, my Skylark. Once the Bloom begins, fear will haunt the people of this quaint nation. I will sow the seeds of a cult whose Goddess cursed the Baroness.”

His insides screamed at the thought of propagating a false religion. Everything about this was _wrong_. So wrong, she had to have chosen it on purpose. His stomach churned. Already nausea was taking hold of him again, such a disgusting sensation; mortal bodies were weak and frail.

“Once the cult has taken root, alert your soulmate to the problem that is spreading through her streets. Convince her to take you to a meeting with the faithful, where they’ll be waiting to ambush her.”

 No, he would not allow that to happen. Annaie would _not_ die by his hand, no matter the consequences. If it meant damnation… so be it. He would be damning himself either way.

_Sarenrae, forgive me…_

“Very well,” he still replied, head low.

“Maybe I’ll even return your little fairytale to you if you do a good job, Skylark.”

The book… he had to get it back. _Had_ to. How could he ever admit to Annaie that he had lost her precious treasure?

The Nymph turned and disappeared, but he cared not to leave his daze.

For the first time in his long existence, Tristian felt like a prayer was not going to help.

* * *

The battering of hooves on pavement shook the city as much as the booming thunder. Stomping, snorting; some of the horses foamed, exhausted and trembling, pelts dripping with blood and sweat and the pouring rain. The squires hurried forth from the stables; hands in the chaos, grabbing reins and saddles and shields and swords.

Blood pumped in her ears, rushing and racing wildly. The hammering in her chest joined into a dissonant choir with all the beats and drums of the city, the pulse of the crusade and the rush of adrenaline one and the same.

One of the horses panicked and reared; shoed hooves struck one of the squires and the knight roared, furious. She hurried to his side. Thoughts became floating tatters in the flow, streaming past her like the rainfall rushing towards the drains.  

The returning knights brought letters. Many of the acolytes, squires and the stablehands had family at the front. Parents, siblings. Aunts and uncles. Cousins.

Crusading was family business.

Father. Had he written? She hurried the horse to the stables; it neighed and struggled, but she had to see.

The furious gale became her breath as she exhaled, chest heavy and hollow. She opened her eyes to the vibrant patterns of her study’s ceiling, untangling herself from the ancient memory.

Leave it to her to accidentally give Tristian her father’s final letter in a book. He had all but confirmed his ability to read Celestial. Of course. Of _course_ he could read Celestial. It wasn’t enough that he felt like an Aasimar. That his eyes were strangely metallic. That he was devout as an angel.

The longer this went on, the harder it became to pretend. But she refused.

_He lies._

It had no _right_ to be true and so it wasn’t.

A heavy knock on her door mercifully interrupted her brooding. Kassil’s voice soon echoed from the other side; she sighed, shook off the exhaustion and called him in.

Her General. He greeted her with a stiff, perfectly formal bow.

“Your Grace, we have a problem.”

_To the surprise of no one._

They had barely recovered from the Troll crisis. Much was still damaged, her people still frightened. She wasn’t sure the barony could take another calamity of this scale.

“Speak your mind, Kassil.”

“Strange as it sounds – monsters, Your Grace. They have begun to appear all over the barony. Unusually large and fierce, too.”

She stared at her General for a long, hard moment.

_Iomedae, please guide my hand…_

* * *

The Owlbear’s head was absolutely massive. She could barely carry the damn thing even when slung over her shoulder and Valerie had her hands full hauling the head of the dead Hydra around. Dusk had arrived by the time they made it back to the hunting lodge; Annaie didn’t waste any time with pleasantries with anyone else present, rather she tossed the giant of a head into the next corner and grabbed a chair to rest her back against.

This whole hunt was a complete farce organized solely for the entertainment of the highborn. The guests from Pitax had scarcely lifted a finger, the ones from Mivon had nearly gotten themselves killed. The only ones vaguely competent or helpful had been the Embeth Travelers themselves.

She’d resigned herself to her fate of suffering for the rest of the night, suspecting she’d be here for the… victory speech. Unless, of course, the guests who had actually managed to hunt something had acquired more than one beastly head.

Humility wasn’t exactly a strength of hers. If she could succeed, she wanted to. In all things she tried. Even hunting monstrous beasts throughout her barony.

Hands covered her face for a good, long moment, unmaking the world around her. Problems, Problems… fireproof Trolls hadn’t been enough. Giant monsters were all the rage these days. They certainly filled _her_ with rage.

A shadow fell on her face and snuffed out what little light passed through her fingers; she sluggishly looked up and recognized Tristian’s hooded figure against the bright light. The priest threw back his cowl with one hand not a second later, then gestured towards her shoulders. “May I?”

 “Go ahead,” she replied, attempting a smile but soon finding it crooked and misshapen.

A hand came down on one shoulder each, gently pressing down. His voice split into the otherworldy whispers of the chant; comforting light filled her vision, tickled her skin, seeped into her being like gentle water.

Tristian really was a damn good healer.

The kinks in her back immediately unwound and the dull ache faded until it was naught but a distant memory. She exhaled and expelled what remained of the tension, feeling comfortably awake and refreshed.

His hands lingered on her shoulders for a moment longer than really needed.

Their eyes didn’t meet, as he withdrew and swiftly turned around to stroll towards the next member of the group.

The Master of the Hunt soon approached her, congratulating her and her party for the feat of slaying not one but two great beasts. The Horn was sounded and the hunt officially ended, which meant she could soon go home and go to bed.

“Our Mivoni hunters faced a great beast, but nearly fell to its claws,” the Master announced. The girls had already returned to shifting the blame on each other in the corner, as they’d been doing all evening with scarcely a break. Idiocy was hardly an excuse for incompetence; she would’ve been more successful today if a good part of it hadn’t been spent babysitting these children.

“Our guests from Pitax bagged… a squirrel. Well, hopefully they at least enjoyed the hunt.”

Likewise, wasting funds on nurturing these particular carrion feeders seemed like an excessively sinful mistake. Relations with Pitax were… lukewarm on a good day. Usually rather bordered on hostility. She had little love for Irovetti and his bootlickers, murderers, and thieves.  

“We managed to slay a great, ferocious Wyvern, but our fair Baroness achieved the greatest feat of all.”

She offered a gentle smile against all instincts telling her to leave this crap behind and rose from her chair, swiftly sauntering towards the man.

“The heads of two great beasts,” he announced. “Your Grace, you won this competition.”

The man solemnly offered her the promised chest, which contained a solid amount of gold and pearls. The barony was always in need of money, which was perhaps the only good reason to strive for this victory. She turned and handed the chest to Jubilost, who immediately stored it and its contents away, never to be seen again. Hopefully, or she’d end up spending it on something completely pointless.

Relieved to finally be able to wrap this whole business up, Annaie turned to her General and envoy, who’d spent the moment looking at her with impeccable apathy.

“Kassil, I believe it’s time to-“

Someone coughed- no _gurgled_. The sound of liquid splattering, hacking, a distant thud.

And then, agonized screams.

The lodge fell dead silent save for the servant’s choked cries for help. The guests stood frozen, the Aldori girls stumbled and backed up against the wall in fright as the man that had stood next to them peacefully just a moment before suddenly dropped to his knees, coughing and wheezing.

“What’s happening… to me…” he croaked, each word rougher than the last until it was scarcely speech at all. Blood coated his lips and the ground beneath him, his hands, his knees, there was more and more of it as it began to pool around him.

“Someone help him!”

No, something was wrong, so terribly wrong-

She grabbed her sword and shield and hollered, “stay _away_!”

Not a second later he was enveloped by a blue haze; one last pained moan, then his body came apart in a rain of blood. Someone screeched, panicked.

_Shield up._

Crimson coated the floor, the ceiling, the walls, the _people_. Everything had turned red. Something struck her legs; stray droplets hit her face. Between hard thuds and disgusting splashing sounds against her shield, she knew with a cold feeling creeping up her spine that she had dodged the man’s innards.

_What the fuck what the fuck what the **fuck** -_

Amid the remnants of what had once been a person, a massive Owlbear covered in blood and guts first shook its head, dazed, then it let out a deafening screech and barreled towards her with little delay.

“Formation!” she barked.

_This can’t be real-_

A gigantic paw battered against her shield and knocked the wind out of her; the shock passed through her arms and sent searing pain into her shoulders. The lodge broke out into sheer chaos. Shouting, running, frantic reaching for weapons, chanting of spells.

_Shit-_

A warm, protective haze enveloped her; she stumbled a few steps away from the beast and glanced around only briefly to see Tristian still covered in the divine and otherworldly mist of a successful spell.  

No time to be grateful.

Valerie was by her side in another heartbeat.

* * *

This had turned out to be a thousand times worse than he had anticipated.

The rain of gore had paralyzed many of the guests into fright; Annaie reacted fast as always, but the owlbear had already begun to barrel towards her, screeching up a storm. Focusing became hard as he felt like his eardrums were about to burst and his skull throbbed and ached.

Furiously splintering wood; screams and yells – _focus_. Protect her.

Finally relief. Valerie’s tower shield drew the beast’s ire. The rest became routine; strikes, dances, spells from the back. They’d fought Owlbears. Annaie knew her team. They all were tired, but they had enough fight left for another.

It was over quick. In a distracted moment, as it reared, her blade went through the creature’s throat and pierced its brain. The floor almost seemed to splinter underneath its weight as it fell, creaking and moaning.

Everything was smeared with blood. The bar, the tables, the ceiling. His robes. _Everything_.

A bloom of blood.

This was _his_ work. His deed. The bloom was his crime. More than the Trolls, more than the bandits. He felt as if every drop of blood in the lodge served as a witness at his trial, and they all were damning him.

For an unbearable moment, nothing moved. The lodge stood still, frozen in time, each of them just staring at the mess that barely looked human. Her shield dropped and hit the wooden floor. The sound seemed deafening, ringing in his ears as if unbearably loud. It shouldn’t be so loud. It couldn’t be.

“The guests may leave,” she said; her voice was calm, far too calm. Annaie was never this calm unless she willed herself to be. And if she was, that meant she wasn’t calm at all.

Quiet whispers, muttering. Hesitation. No one attempted to move.

 _“Now,”_ she barked.

Finally the guests began to leave, shuffling out of the lodge one by one. Once the last one had left, she closed the door with strangely jerkish motions.

Silence had once again grasped the room. Tristian thought he could hear his own beating heart, frantically hammering away as if running out of space in his chest.

“Kassil,” she breathed after a quiet moment, exhaustion plain on her voice as she exhaled. “I fear we just found the source of all these monsters.”

The Aldori’s eyes went wide as the realization hit. “This… is dreadful.”

In her eyes, however, he saw… fright. Horror. A cold hand around her neck. Wide pupils, shallow breaths, her cramped fingers barely holding on to the sword in her hands. Battle didn’t scare her. Dungeons. Caves. Dragons, demons, trolls, _give it all,_ she wouldn’t care.

But responsibility, she feared.

“If the public learns of this…” Kassil was sullen and subdued, voice low as he spoke.

She sheathed her blade, yet nearly missed the sheath several times due to the tremor that had taken hold of her limbs. “They’ll panic. _Heavens_ , they’ll panic…”

A hand brushed over her face, leaving streaks of blood. The mark briefly glowed, a wave of golden light passing along her features from forehead to chin. “Inheritor, give me strength… I beg of you, forgive me this lie for I must,” she whispered; then she turned and addressed her General, voice shaky but determined. “Do not inform the people of this incident, Kassil.”

“Very well, your Grace. I know not if it helps you, but… I believe it is the right decision.”

It didn’t seem to lessen the conflict that now raged within her, if the frown that followed was any indication.  

“Investigate this. Inform me of the results as soon as you get them.”

Her voice had turned to steel, the moment of terror overtaken by anger. Anger was strong, anger was powerful. Anger was poison she _willingly_ drank, he realized and wilted inside. It made her feel stronger.

“Yes, Your Grace. Give me a month.” Kassil bowed respectfully.

“A _month_? You expect me to sit on my ass and do nothing while people explode in my barony for a whole month?”

Kassil, despite the visible fury borne of impatience boiling underneath her words, remained remarkably calm. “Yes, Your Grace. Sometimes that’s all a ruler can do.”

A silent moment passed, taut as a bowstring and laden with barely contained frustration.

“Fine.” She waved her hand, swatting the moment away like a nasty insect. “ _Dismissed_. All of you.”

The door flew open, and she was gone.

_I’m so sorry, Annaie. So, so sorry…_

* * *

People were exploding into monsters in her barony. There was nothing else to say about that.

Nothing.

She felt rage. A month of doing nothing. A month of waiting for people to die. A month of sitting idle while her barony fell apart. What was there to feel but _rage_?

The blade was light in her hands; she raised it above her head. A lone tree stump stood by the lodge, remnants of once a proud tree. With sharp whirring and flashes of light, the old sword came down on the stump, striking bloodless wounds into the dead wood. Pieces of bark and sawdust went flying past her face.

A month.

 Another strike shaved off a wedge whole.

A _month_.

Strike for strike for strike, until the stump began to come apart. Rather fatigue than fright. Rather fury than paralysis.

She struck again, severing a rotting root.

If she could move, she could fight, she could batter her enemies, _she would never falter_. If only she never allowed herself to be scared.  

Another strike; the blade went so deep that she struggled for a moment to get it back out.

Monsters could be fought, but a disease making her people explode? How was she supposed to fight such a thing?

Raised high above her head, the blade was poised for another furious strike, yet the ear-shattering sound of metal on metal struck every nerve in her body all at once; a wild shock passed through her hands, sending the sword flying out of her grip.

She turned, furious, yet Valerie closed what remained of the gap between them with little care.

“Your lack of control is unbecoming of a Baroness, Your Grace.” The warrior’s voice was hard as steel, harder than any sword she’d held in her life. “You strike this stump with no regard for form or schooling, your posture is uncontrolled and open.”

Frustration came forth as a furious growl deep within her throat. “Don’t give me this crap, Valerie. This is all bullshit.”

The blaze of disdain lit her eyes. “I will say what I find true, Your Grace. If you must fight, you may fight me, but do not beat down on a stump in the wilderness like an untrained child with a toy sword.”

“Fine,” she growled. She retrieved her sword from the dirt it had fallen into, wiped off the remains of bark and grains and turned to face her steadfast companion. Barely a heartbeat passed before she charged, every step fueled by rage only growing as the second passed.

Valerie met her strike for strike, blow for blow, faltering not for a moment. Every gap Annaie left in her defense was swiftly, painfully punished. Every move made in haste and thoughtless fervor either blocked or countered with schooled success.

There was no point in denying it, and Annaie never would bother – Valerie was a vastly better fighter than her. It mattered not, she reckoned they both knew that. It wasn’t a test of her skill. Every strike tired her more, every blow that shook her arms sent another wave of searing pain through her fingers and all the way to her shoulders. Valerie defended more than she attacked, conserving her energy against the wasteful ferocity of her opponent. Annaie kept going until her lungs burned and screamed for her to stop, until sweat was dripping from her chin, until the sheer effort of breathing nearly forced her stomach to turn itself inside out.

She coughed, spitting a mix of saliva and bile; her legs finally gave in, forcing her shaking body to its knees. The sword slid from her cramped fingers and her forehead hit the cool grass, where she remained, gasping for air like a fish with rattling breaths.

Coughs, gasps, fingers digging into the cold dirt. Her heart hammered and hammered, helplessly hoping to match the bottomless need for blood. Every inch of her burned.

It _burned_ , and it had burned the rage away strike by strike.

Until there was nothing left.

She didn’t move for a long time. Her breath steadied, the heat in her veins faded and the pain became only a distant ache, but she remained, eyes closed, willing the world away. Failure. Failure to protect, failure to control, failure to fight. Another failure to live through.

_I am weak._

A hand dropped on her shoulder; she finally dared, _pushed_ herself to sit up, coming face to face with fair, scarred Valerie. Her opponent hadn’t suffered a scratch, well-versed in the art of defense and battle. Annaie had learned to fight with a longsword, but at the end of the day, she was neither a true Paladin nor born to be a Cleric.

 Despite everything, she saw… sympathy in Valerie’s eyes. Distant, faint. It almost felt like pity.  

“I apologize. I am acting like a child,” Annaie breathed. Her voice failed her still, not for the strength of her emotions, but the inability of her lungs to match demand.

“I think I can relate,” Valerie responded curtly. “Think of this no more. It never happened.”

In the distance, she saw the brooding shadow of Tristian, sullenly lurking by the door to the lodge.

Regardless, she struggled herself up, relentlessly pushing until she was back on her feet. “Thank you.”

Valerie bowed, turned, and stalked back towards the lodge. When Annaie twisted to glance at the door again, Tristian was gone.

* * *

The next week, a letter had arrived from Nerosyan. Probably six weeks delayed at this point thanks to the lack of infrastructure, but it had found its way into her hands, a little worse for the wear but intact. She had little desire to deal with the issues of Mendev on top of hers, and yet she had no choice but to endure.

The sight of Eryil’s handwriting invited her to be complacent, to have faith in the Faith and its mortal servants. Yet she wondered how many hands had touched this letter, how many eyes had scanned its words. The church had long since been consumed by paranoia and the chasing of shadows. The Council of Heralds had attempted to dampen the fires of the righteous, but the hatred and fear nonetheless burned in every heart.

Even her own, she realized bitterly.

The wax seal remained unbroken and the heavy parchment within pristine, but there were ways if there was need. She sighed and began to focus on the words her friend had addressed to her.

_Dear, graceful Chosen One,_

Already, Annaie felt the need to roll her eyes, although there was no one here who could witness such a display.

_You should write longer letters. My mentor thought we were sending back and forth secret encoded messages. The codemasters wasted hours on trying to decode them until they were informed that you really are just dealing with particularly fire-resistant trolls._

Her friend’s nonchalance when it came to the less glamorous sides of Mendev would never fail to exasperate her. It was hard to tell whether she was being serious or joking in this particular case; reading letters was not beyond the Inquisition, but she saw little reason for them to read hers with such suspicion.

She skipped ahead a little, merely skimming the full page of recounting recent events within her old friend circle.

_The mood in Nerosyan is explosive. Some of the Knights are still pissy that you were sent to some weird backwater. “She was raised to help lead a crusade, not a barony filled with bandits,” they say. Really charming. I can’t say I disagree though, there are calls for the Fifth and they’re getting louder, and Aasethiel’s precious daughter isn’t here to inspire all these poor souls to valiantly charge to their deaths? Scandalous._

Aasethiel’s daughter. The tragic remnants of their beloved general who had perished, never to return. She let her head roll back, eyes closed. The headache was already coming.

The Fifth. Because the Fourth had ended so well. How grand.

_Expect Crusaders on your doorstep soon. They’ll be asking for recruiting rights. Don’t send them away. You know we need the bodies. It’s getting hot up here, some think the wardstones aren’t going to last much longer._

Ah yes. At some point over the course of the century, the primary strategy of Mendev had turned to throwing as many bodies at the problem as they could possibly find. Trained soldiers had become a highly valued currency of sorts and true Paladins were becoming a rare sight indeed. Every peasant with a pitchfork was welcomed warmly by the Mendevian Crusaders. Children, men, women, the young and the aging, the sick and the sinning; it mattered not. Nothing was quite so frightening as a demon army right on your doorstep.

_Just take my monsters instead… throw them at the demons…_

She tossed the letter at her desk and passed a hand over her face, sending a brief prayer to the Heavens. Problems, no matter where she went. There weren’t enough hands to fix them all.

Monsters in her barony…

Who could know a source of such calamity?

Druids, perhaps. But if they had not gotten involved on their own accord so far, they never would. Erastil’s faithful seemed none the wiser. Her own subjects were at a loss.

Fey. Many of these monsters seemed not quite… native to this world. Manticores, Hydras… Giant Flytraps…

_The Nymph._

Annaie leaned back, staring at her desk in deep contemplation. The Nymph had told her to visit her in her home. She’d never taken her up on the offer, finding little enjoyment in such… company.

But perhaps the Fey would have some answers for her.

* * *

“Thank you for the information.”

The stablehand clumsily bowed. “You’re welcome, Lord Councilor.”

Strange cultists in the streets. Ah, how surprising. If only someone could have seen this coming…

He sighed, ran a hand through his fair hair and began to make his way back to the yard of the fort. The majority of the past two weeks had been spent trying to keep the overall damage of the beginning Bloom to a minimum, but he had diverted some of his time to try to gauge the spread of the cult Nyrissa had planted. Perhaps another week and he could… alert his Baroness. Lie to her some more.

What was another lie at this point? Why even bother feeling sorry for himself? It changed nothing at all. Made nothing better. Certainly didn’t make it better for _her_.

She was so scared. He held all the answers and yet he did nothing. He should. He _should_. That night he’d seen her rip the stump apart, he’d felt like he had committed one of the worst sins of all  - corrupting the spirit of another divine servant. This barony was going to destroy her.

How Iomedae was not yet furious with him, he did not know.

Speak of a devil, as they said – he spotted their Baroness lingering in front of one of the stalls, a bag slung over her shoulder, her prayer book and sword strapped to her side.

Had she… given orders to move out? He remembered no such instructions and the day was close to reaching its conclusion – not exactly a time to head outside. Hasty steps carried him to her side, driven ahead by the rising sense of apprehension. Certainly she wasn’t planning to leave?

No. Such behavior wasn’t like her.

Her blood-shot eyes went wide the second she spotted him approach, as if caught red-handed. That didn’t bode well.

Still, he decided to approach her with a friendly smile. After the events of the past days, she deserved nothing less. She deserved so much more, actually. If only he could give her at least a fraction of it.

“Annaie! Are you planning to go somewhere?”

She responded with an uneasy smile. “Just a little errand.”

The stall she’d been examining housed a young mare, wiry but tall. Her curious ears flicked with every sound. Light reflected off her shiny coat, black as tar. A fierce but intelligent mind spoke through her wide, observing eyes, warily but inquisitively observing them between occasional mouthfuls of hay.

The horses were new. Up until now, they’d been traveling primarily on foot. With the distances traveled getting longer and longer, they’d finally decided to invest in good and strong travel mounts after their return from Varnhold, although Jubilost had certainly made his displeasure about the cost of them known.

“Pretty, isn’t she?”

Despite the obvious exhaustion, something warm and tender danced in her eyes. Faint traces of a smile and the aura of beloved memories, and an undercurrent of happiness coloring her voice. She had seemed somewhat… excited by the idea of getting her own horse, but he hadn’t thought much of it until now.

He tilted his head, thoughtful. “You seem quite entranced.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth. “I always wanted a horse when I was younger. It’s… a big thing back home. To have your own horse.”

Of course. Knights. Show him a knight without a horse and he’d show you a bird without wings – what a sorry sight that would be. She had to have grown up with these things, dreaming of someday owning her own steed. Somehow, the thought brought a genuine smile to his face, the first of the day. His reaction, in turn, seemed to put her somewhat at ease with his presence.

“I’ve been told this one is mine. Best stock they could find for the price.”

The mare reached out to her outstretched hand, curiously sniffing her fingers – followed by a brazen nibble. Annaie seemed unbothered; evidently, she was quite familiar with these animals.

It made him wonder. What had her past looked like? Had she spent much time with these creatures? Had she perhaps worked at a stable just like the boy he’d just spoken to? What was life like in Nerosyan… so many things he wished he could ask her.

“Is she comparable to what you had in Mendev?”

“No,” the Baroness said, bluntly. “She’s too small and too thin. Ours had far more bulk. They were already massive straight out of their mother’s wombs and the best of them were as dangerous as their riders. You wouldn’t want to get in the way of those hooves.”

 _You call **this** small? _He thought; struggling to reconcile his notion of the word with what he saw before him. Horses intimidated him a little. Only a little. They weren’t animals to fight, they were animals to fight _beside_ , and that made all the difference.

“I once saw a squire get struck by a panicking stallion. His skull cracked open like a ripe melon. The responding cleric cursed for the first time in 30 years, I’ve been told.”

Despite the grim and disturbing subject matter, faint traces of nostalgia colored her voice, though she did her best to hide it. He wasn’t fooled so easily, however. Just the look in her eyes told him so much – she missed home.

_I do too._

“That stallion sired many strong foals. So many good war mounts. But he was fierce, few could handle him.”

That slight smirk, the light in her eyes…

It took him embarrassingly long to realize what it was, although he had seen it among his kin so many times. A longing for glory, the sweet taste of valor, the call of virtuous battle. The heart of the warrior’s righteous crusade beat in her chest. Subdued as it was in the Stolen Lands, she had a thirst for the great wars of mankind.  

She didn’t just miss home. She missed the drums of war. War without conflict of mind; only the rush of battle. That’s why she threw herself at every foe with reckless abandon.

Gloryhound. Nyrissa’s Hound.

Iomedae’s choice of servant suddenly made much more sense.

 _Join our ranks,_ a voice in his mind beseeched, _the Celestial armies need your spirit._

Evidently her goddess thought the same. And yet, her anger threatened to consume her if not somehow contained.

What could he do?

The curious mare had decided to join them near the door, still chewing on her last batch of hay. She inquisitively nosed his robes as if looking for a treat, then pushed off his hood and finally, once the rest seemed to have gotten boring, nibbled and tugged on his buckles. Tristian found himself unsure what to do and resorted to just awkwardly trying to dodge the curious animal’s assaults. It all concluded with a snort right in his face, sending him a good few steps back as he wiped the resulting droplets off his skin.

The new owner of the nosy creature did nothing to save him and instead appeared to revel in the entertainment provided. “I think she likes you.”

 _Another one fooled,_ he thought bitterly. “Have you given her a name?”

She smirked. “Caritas.”

_Charity._

The other side, the warm and kind. The side of her that didn’t long for battle, but for companionship and joy, for peace and justice. The side that made him feel an unfamiliar kind of heat all over, so strange and yet somehow intoxicating.

Caritas’ attention had returned to Annaie; she now began to try taking her travel equipment apart with great interest. His fair Baroness just laughed, only began to interfere when the creature attempted to nibble on her book - she gently cradled the animal’s massive head and pressed a kiss squarely on its nose.

Something in him twitched uncomfortably.

A despondent voice hummed, _kiss me instead._

 _No_ ; he furiously wiped the frivolous thought off his mind.

“I see, you’re a playful one. Let’s get you tacked up, girl.”

How happy she was to have this horse… it made the past events feel a little less grim. At her best and warmest, she truly was sunshine given form – something he thought only his goddess could be.

And here he was in the process of destroying her… So many things threatened her light, it wasn’t fair. Even she herself seemed determined to put it out before it could ever truly shine.

She opened the door to the horse’s stall, threw a halter over its head and led it out into the alley with trained ease. Tristian silently watched her work, content to observe her brush the coat, retrieve saddle and bridle and playfully interact with the mare as she did.

It all seemed natural to her. Like she’d done it a thousand times.

 _I’m seeing a part of her past,_ he thought. Again, something that didn’t belong to him, but he selfishly wanted to have. He just couldn’t get himself to leave.

Or stop her.

Who could know where she was planning to go at this late hour. Perhaps she was going to cause trouble. Not like she could cause any more trouble than he had, at this point. Plus, she was the Baroness. Not his place to question her decisions.

Before she finished and could begin to lead her mount outside, he reached out to her shoulder. “At least tell me where you’re going, in case you don’t...”

She peered at him, anxious but unwavering. “It’s not quite so dramatic. Linzi knows where I am. I have left orders and instructions for you and the other advisors and I should be back in three days, give or take.”

Organized as always, of course. Even her clandestine escapes could never just be that. Again she had told Linzi, but not him. It tasted sour because it was deserved and yet she couldn’t know _how_ deserved.

She gently patted his arm and graced him with a reassuring smile. Then she climbed into the stirrups with the ease of a lifetime in the saddle, grabbed the reins, nodded a last goodbye and departed.

Tristian realized with pain in his heart how little he knew of her, how much he _wanted_ to know and covet and how futile that desire truly was.

* * *

The first day of her absence, he kept himself busy with the mountain of tasks and instructions she’d left for him and the other advisors. One couldn’t claim in good conscience that she had left the barony without leadership, but it was unsurprising; she was used to leaving the barony for long periods of time and therefore knew what things had to be taken care of in advance. Evidently, the others were far more used to her being gone than he was, as they spent little more than a passing thought on her departure.

Tristian soon found himself the only one somewhat anxious about this – she never left without him. The only other person in her group of friends who could say the same was Linzi, and she’d been entrusted with the knowledge of their leader’s whereabouts.

He felt strangely left out and stranded, but the Cleansed were spreading in the streets, providing a distracting issue. Once she returned, he’d have to address the problem.

And hopefully get her book back…

The third day, he grew terribly anxious. Three days, give or take, she had said. There was still time. And yet, he had a bad feeling.

The fourth day, that bad feeling became an oppressive atmosphere that haunted him wherever he went; he pestered Linzi for information, but the bard waved him off with an apprehensive headshake.

On the morning of the fifth day, he sent an anxious prayer to his goddess while his Councilor duties led him to the capital gates, and by some miracle, someone out there must have answered. The thundering sound of heavy hooves on the worn gravel paths echoed faintly in the distance, growing louder and louder with every beat. The shadow of a creature black as tar passed the horizon and dashed up the hill, careening past guards and civilians alike as if possessed.

Caritas came to a sudden, startled halt at the behest of her rider, whose posture and self-carriage were…

_No-_

Tristian threw his stack of papers at the next scribe and stumbled towards the furiously snorting animal. Sweat had drenched its coat and white foam covered its muzzle and nostrils, every breath came out hoarse and forceful. The animal neighed and stomped with its massive hooves, yet moved no further on its shaking legs.

Annaie slid out of her saddle with the last bit of strength she seemed to have left. He barely caught her before she hit the hardened ground, shivering, trembling, coughing – and bleeding, somewhere.

“What did you _do_ ,” he hissed, struggling to keep her upright with his pathetic strength. Oh, how he detested this body, its frail weakness, how it bled and struggled and fought with every breath.

She’d dug her fingers into his shoulders, but even they were weak to grasp; just bending them took all the strength she had. He felt her sigh and tremble, cough and rattle.

Not again. Why did she have to be so _insane_.

His spell soon mended a part of her wounds and eased the exhaustion that had been hard on her body, allowing her to at least stand upright, though she quickly reached for her horse’s saddle and leaned against the fatigued mare for support.

“That Nymph is crazy,” she wheezed.

_Oh heavens… no, she didn’t…._

No, he couldn’t lose his composure. Focus. Don’t give yourself away.

“Nymph? You mean… the one who fought the Staglord with you?”

The Baroness only nodded between heavy breaths. Then she waved weakly, grabbed the mare’s reins and nodded towards the fort atop the hill. “Let’s discuss this later, I need to rest.”

“Let me help you,” he offered yet awaited no response. He quickly called over a squire to take the horse off her hands, then approached a farmer with his cart and requested the service of his vehicle to move their fair Baroness back towards the fort, since she absolutely wasn’t going to get back into the saddle.

They struggled to help her into the back, but somehow managed with the combined energy of three people and the quarter of a Baroness; once seated, she brazenly used his shoulder as support, but he was too anxious to truly notice the extent of their proximity. No, his mind was far too otherwise occupied.  

She’d come face to face with Nyrissa and somehow survived. That either took ridiculous luck or divine protection. He wasn’t sure which one was more likely at this point.

“I healed the worst, you… nanny…” she murmured, voice abnormally subdued.

Right. Her healing consisted of stitching the skin back together and hoping it didn’t rip back up. He had a deep respect for her and her many abilities, but healing wasn’t a strength of hers. Battle and leadership were her calling and it showed; her only true enemies besides Nyrissa were of her own making.

It took them about eternity to get back up the hill, at which point she had somehow managed to doze off on his shoulder with her fingers lightly curled around his arm. He wasn’t concerned for the moment; when he checked her body for further injuries with a spell, her words quickly proved true – the wounds weren’t particularly bad and she really had healed a good amount of it. The long journey had likely drained her far more than any of the damage she sustained and she needed food, water and a good night’s rest more than she needed a healer.  

Knowing this, his initial reaction had perhaps been… unbecoming.

Yet he couldn’t help but feel rattled. Had she gone out there to face Nyrissa, alone, without telling anyone except Linzi? Why? To what end? Where’d she gone to, the Verdant Chambers?

The thought alone sent unpleasant shivers down his spine. There was an unholy aura to that place as if centuries of death and destruction at her behest had seeped into the soil and drained it of all warmth. He remembered the cold of the stone walls deep beneath the ground…

It did little good to dig through memories so dark and painful. He shook off the pictures that tormented him still after all these years, for the cart was coming to a gentle halt in front of the Fort. She woke when he shifted just slightly, blinking at him blearily for a precious second, then she looked around, recognized her whereabouts and moved to get off the cart. The short break seemed to have refreshed her, since she managed to stumble off the cart with some semblance of motor control _almost_ entirely without his help. He graciously thanked the farmer before dismissing him, then turned to his Baroness with a nervous frown.

She patted his shoulder and smiled faintly. “Let me rest, then we can talk.”

He nodded, swallowing the anxiety that was beginning to build. “Rest well.”

* * *

Annaie invited him to join her at the tavern for dinner that evening; Elina had cleared a secluded room for them, allowing them to chat in privacy for a while. The innkeeper hurried off to prepare food while they settled at the empty table. The atmosphere was comfortable and friendly, but a gloomy shadow cast a dark look on her face.

She’d obviously had a good rest since morning and her appearance had also been cleaned up considerably; her golden hair was tidy, she had taken a bath and her clothes were washed and new. Any wounds she’d had were gone. Only dark circles under her eyes and a red hue around her pupils remained to speak of her arduous journey. No doubt she’d be back to working hard tomorrow as if nothing had ever gone wrong.

“Thanks for joining me,” she said, though she wouldn’t look at him, gazing instead at the pattern of the wooden table with interest. “I need some company after that experience and I got things to discuss. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.”

He arched a brow as he poured himself a cup of tea. “I’d prefer not killing any birds though.”

“Well what do you know, I just ordered chicken,” she replied with a snort. “Hope you can forgive me.”

“I’ll think about it,” he answered playfully, then offered to fill her cup as well. Annaie accepted with a faint nod and a smile. “Although I think we’ve had this conversation before. In a similar setting, even.”

Her hand passed over her face, briefly rubbing her eyes in the process. “Yes, you do end up having to forgive me for my transgressions rather often.”

_If you knew what I’ve done…_

His polite smile remained his last defense in the face of everything, as always. “Forgiveness is the essence of my faith, after all.”

She nodded before taking a sip. “Oh, I didn’t notice. What with you asking me to spare every pitiful sinner we meet. I think you could convince me to spare a red dragon if you really put your mind to it.”

The sardonic tone didn’t escape his notice, but he knew she meant no harm. The difference in their philosophies was mild, but enough to, at times, spark lively debate. He didn’t mind; in fact, it reminded him of disagreements within the Celestial Choirs.

“I may if the dragon seems genuinely repentant. I don’t imagine we’ll encounter any such thing, however.”

She shook her head. “I don’t know anymore, Tristian. I’ve seen crazier things at this point. That Nymph… she seriously had me fooled.”

_She fools everyone. Don’t blame yourself._

Annaie seemed deeply disturbed by it regardless and irritated on top. She’d failed to see the deception and that had put her at a disadvantage.

If she’d at least known…

“She must be quite deceptive. I just wish you hadn’t…” his voice faltered and trailed off. As always, it was not his place to criticize her decision, and yet…

Perhaps he could. As her friend?

“I was rather worried for you, and then you come back looking like that…”

She sighed. “It wasn’t the smartest idea in retrospect, I admit that.”

“You need to stop being so reckless all the time. I know it can be a strength of yours to go into things without thinking, but-“

Tristian fell silent, realizing with cold horror what he’d just said.

Annaie, however, only laughed. “Oh no, say it, please. I should not be above reproach.”

 “Well, it’s just…” he bit his lip, desperately searching the words. “Your impatience… it’s _impressive_ , you manage to plan around an action that by itself visibly took no planning whatsoever. You left us instructions and contingency plans for your absence, then rushed into a wholly unplanned journey. I’m- I’m genuinely not sure how you manage.”

Speaking to her so openly and bluntly was scary, he didn’t like it. Yet somehow, she only seemed amused. “You and me both. I can only hope to approximate it. I see something that must be done, I find ways to achieve it. I don’t necessarily consider if the thing made sense to begin with.”

Target-driven determination, of course. She had to be driven to bother messing with the Stolen Lands in the first place. Her barony had become her cause and she did everything in her power to make it succeed, no matter how nonsensical the venture itself may be.  

“You have your advisors to counsel you. Did Linzi think yours was a good idea?”

Annaie cast a sideways glance, averting her gaze, and crossed her arms. “She thought it was stupid.”

His brows furrowed, his composure briefly shaken by her brazen admission. “And you went anyway?”

Had she gotten smaller in her chair? It certainly looked like it, as if she’d somehow sunken into the seat, scowling at everything and nothing in particular.

“My second-biggest flaw is being very stubborn at the most inconvenient times...”

Oh, the passion of the young and daring, little was so dangerous for friend and foe alike.

 “I hate sitting around, you know. I didn’t completely trust her, but after the whole thing with the fog I didn’t think she’d try to kill me. She had plenty of opportunity to do so before, if that had been her goal. I thought some ancient powerful Fey may have answers about a bunch of monsters suddenly appearing in my barony.”

He frowned. Obviously she had put _some_ thought into it and in a way her idea hadn’t been entirely wrong, at least in the face of a lack of better options. If she hadn’t gone alone the entire way, perhaps… but like this, she had only been reckless once again, putting herself in harm’s way far too easily.

Although she now was aware of the Nymph’s true nature. That had to count for something. If nothing else, it gave him some sense of satisfaction.  

“Did she say anything helpful?” he asked, quietly wondering if Nyrissa had revealed anything on accident.

“She called me her Hound, said this was all beyond my understanding. Can’t stand it when immortal beings say that. I’m short-lived, but I’m not stupid.”

The corners of his mouth twitched briefly. Oh, the irony. Once upon a time, those words could’ve come from his mouth. Now… he found himself rather on her side, for he had no doubt she could easily understand what motivated Nyrissa. Immortals thought themselves beyond the reach of mortals, but their games were often the same, only played on a different scale.

Annaie’s eyes narrowed and she froze as if suddenly overcome by an idea. She spent a good moment seemingly deep in thought, furiously trying to untangle a mess of strings in her head.

Then her eyes went wide.

“It’s her.”

His breath hitched. “What?”

Could she have figured it out already?

“Alright, hear me out. When we first kicked out the Staglord, he seemed to have these dreams of a Queen who charmed him, she was the one who had given him this idea of… being a lord. When Nyta cursed her father, she wrote in her letter that a fair maiden had appeared in her dreams and told her how to solve her problems forever. When the fog plagued the lands, the Nymph appeared to me in my dreams. I thought nothing of it because I have visions frequently, but…”

She absent-mindedly bit the nail of her thumb. “Wherever a woman appears in someone’s dream in these lands, disaster seems to strike soon after. That village by the marshes was old, but Fey _are_ immortal. She told me she has aims beyond my understanding and the monsters she summoned to kill me were almost identical to the filth that now plagues my barony.”

He blinked, stunned into silence. She really had figured it out. The hints were plenty of course, and she wouldn’t be the first to see calamity coming and fail to avert it anyway, but…

Maybe…

“I think she’s been doing this for a long time and she is somehow behind this crap with the monsters, too. If only I knew why… or perhaps it’s just a coincidence…”

“No, I agree,” he quickly replied. If he could steer her towards being wary of Nyrissa, so much was won – oh, it almost made him giddy with excitement. He couldn’t let that show, but it took all his composure to keep it inside. “It might be worth investigating.”

The door rattled and creaked open loud enough to wake the dead. Elina came dashing into the room with their respective dinners. The innkeeper playfully inquired if they needed anything else, then scurried away as quickly as she’d appeared. The woman seemed rather eager to leave them alone, it was quite confusing.

Annaie dug into her food so fast, he barely had time to wish her a good meal. Hunger had likely plagued her for much of the journey. “Did anything come up on your end while I was gone?” she inquired between bites.

_The Cleansed…_

Somehow, gathering the courage to lie to her face became harder every time. “There is something, actually.” He laid his fork down on his plate and rested his chin on his palm, pensively staring at the table. “I’ve observed a disturbing development in Tuskdale’s streets...”

Dismay was written plainly on her face, but she merely exhaled, steeling herself. “Out with it.”

“There’s talk of a… savage Goddess, who is enraged by your appearance in her lands. They say she cursed you, and now you bring woe and death to everyone around you. It was nothing but idle talk for the longest time, but as of late, with all these monsters around, just after the crisis with the Trolls…”

She passed a hand over her face and released a heavy sigh. “They’re afraid, so they’ll believe it. Of course.”

Her frame sank into the chair as if finally giving in to the fatigue and both her hands wholly covered her face, hiding her exhausted features for a long, sullen moment. “I think I’m too tired to be angry.”

Good, but bad? He wasn’t sure what to make of this.

“I’m starting to understand why no one has managed to live here,” she groaned. One hand dropped to the table, the other began to massage the bridge of her nose. “It’s a nightmare.”

Possessed by some brazen spirit, he carefully reached for her hand and tenderly laid his fingers over hers. Her fierce gaze fell upon their joined hands with brief surprise, but the bitter spark within her golden eyes soon died, as he realized with great bewilderment. This power should be beyond him - it was no spell, no magic, it was the mere touch that seemed to soothe just… by being. It also felt far too nice to be normal. Almost sinfully so.

She smiled faintly and squeezed his hand. They sat in silence for a moment, neither of them saying a word or seeking the other’s gaze.

After a while, she exhaled awkwardly and he gently withdrew his hand. The moment was gone, but the memory had already claimed a prominent place in his mind.  

 Her eyes caught his gaze, focused, but warmer than before. “Thanks for telling me.”

His lips twitched and fought to disobey, but he managed a wobbly smile in return. “It’s my duty, but you’re welcome.”

“Even a duty done well should be commended. You’re observant. Guess I’ll have something to take care of while we wait for Kassil after all,” she quipped, but true humor was evidently beyond her at this point.

“Let me tell you what I know,” he offered. “I’ve already thought of a plan.”

* * *

Trolls, monsters exploding out of her civilians and now a cult spreading in her city. Why could she spend months trying to convince people of the sacred nature of the Acts and not reach a single sinning soul out there, but the moment someone showed up and promised eternal salvation through depravity, everyone came running?

 _Evil is apparently more fun_ , she thought to herself bitterly. She’d spent the past few days occasionally walking through the town, looking for Tristian and one of these… barkers. She’d run into the former plenty of times, but she had yet to encounter the latter.

Today was to be the day, it seemed. When she turned the corner, Tristian called out to her out of nowhere. She perked, looked around in confusion, then she spotted the man wearing a much simpler robe, standing near the western wall of a civilian’s home with a young woman… no, girl.

Annaie sauntered over, hands folded behind her back. If what she’d been told was true, it was likely best not to rouse suspicion.

The girl observed her with wide, curious eyes, brows soon furrowing as they scanned her appearance. She was thankfully not wearing armor, rather had opted to go out in a fairly simple blue tunic and pants, a red sash and her traveling belt. Iomedae’s sacred symbol sat on her right shoulder, a golden sword as a sharp contrast against the dark blue. Her longsword was strapped to her belt, as always.

“You look unusual,” the girl remarked.

Oh, lovely. Whenever people told her that, they came up with the wildest reasons why.

“I do?” she replied, arching a brow. “How come?”

“Your eyes, they’re…”

The girl faltered. She pressed her stack of papers to her chest, turned, looked around and realized with visible dismay that she had no direction to run to.

“You don’t need to fear me,” Annaie said, voice growing a little softer. “Tristian, introduce us.”

The priest had observed the interaction in silence. “I’d like you to meet Amalia, a loyal follower of the Kingdom of the Cleansed. Amalia, my friend is an Aasimar, so she may look a little unusual to you.”

 The girl nodded quietly, then, after a moment of hesitation, offered Annaie one of her papers. “I’d be happy to introduce you to the Kingdom. Take this, it’s an invitation.”

She arched a brow and threw Tristian a knowing look, but took the leaflet from her hands.

“Invitations?”

“To our meetings. We meet at sunset at the appointed place – far from the city and its filth, and closer to the Goddess and her Kingdom. This is where the First Faithful conducts sacraments for all who wish to receive the wisdom of our patron!”

The lines sounded awfully recited. Annaie had to fight off the annoyed frown. This was a child being misled into some filthy cult.

Goddess. Ha. That Goddess didn’t happen to be a Nymph, did she?

“Soon there’ll be another meeting. Do come… You and sir Tristian.” She looked at the priest with an adoring spark lighting up her eyes, then she blushed fiercely and dropped her gaze to the ground.

_Heaven, spare me…_

The girl _obviously_ had a crush on him. The urge to dig a hole into the street and bury herself and this entire town in it overcame her. As if things hadn’t gotten ridiculous enough, now a child barely old enough to fill in a dress properly had developed a crush on her-…

Her what, even? What were they at this point? Awkwardly dancing around each other, that’s what.

_Get in line, I’m still trying to get through his thick skull._

Still, she bravely swallowed the annoyance and calmly continued to interrogate the girl about the Cleansed and their activities. She kept staring at Tristian so obviously that she was starting to pity her. Even someone as oblivious as him had to have noticed that.

Both her and Tristian continued to ask questions, taking turns, until the topic of the girl’s ‘Cleansing’ became the focus of the conversation.

“And your family doesn’t mind that this will happen to you? Are they ready to sacrifice you to their goddess?”

Tristian seemed rather dismayed by the thought.

Sacrificing your children to the divine… ha. She knew a thing or two about that.

“Of course they are! To be one of the chosen, one of the Cleansed… it’s a great honor for each of us.”

Her lips twitched, twisting into a bitter smile. She gazed skywards, halo glistening behind her like a pale chain. “Do you want to know about being chosen by a goddess?”

Tristian narrowed his eyes as if to tell her to quit. He quickly interrupted. “You are so young. Why hurry to leave this life before you’ve experienced it in full?”

“It’s… wrong to think about yourself. Once I wanted to live in Restov, wear dresses and walk down boulevards. But then these terrible things started happening. So many people in our village died…”

Her annoyance faded, gaze softening at the sight of the troubled child. How many people had she lost to their Baroness’ failure?

“The Goddess teaches us that selfishness leads to trouble. Now my only wish is to serve the Kingdom and the Goddess.”

Troubling. Annaie sighed, ran a hand through her hair and rested the other on her hip. “You know, my Goddess teaches these things too. I grew up in a temple far away from here.”

Amalia narrowed her eyes, gazing at her with a suspicious, yet curious spark. “I have never seen the symbol of your Goddess.”

“She is called Iomedae, the Lady of Valor.”

“I see,” the girl muttered. “I must go. I have more invitations to distribute. Do come to our next meeting! You and sir Tristian…” the girl hastily sputtered, blushing something fierce.

Tristian focused on her with an unhappy stare once the girl had run off. “Must you proselytize our only contact in the cult?”

She raised a brow. “Yes, since aggressive advertising is apparently vastly more effective than graceful introduction.”

The priest managed a half-chuckle, though it sounded abnormally cold, almost exasperated to her. “You’re frustrated that they’re turning to a cult rather than the Inheritor.”

She snorted. “Damn right I’m frustrated. I spend the better part of a year trying to get the idea of altruism and sacrifice out there, and then some… hedge goddess shows up and an entire cult flocks to her within a matter of weeks. Wanna bet that goddess is actually a Nymph?”

“Maybe people would be more willing to listen if their Baroness spoke of her Lady more openly.”

He was calm and a polite smile tugged at his lips, but she could feel a slight hint of steel underneath his words. Perhaps the conversation over dinner had encouraged him to speak more openly to her, or perhaps they were both slowly unraveling like a badly made sweater.

She fixed a stare on him, eyes narrowed by a fraction; then her gaze dropped, focusing on a particularly interesting pebble on the ground. “Perhaps.”

_Damnit. There he goes being all reasonable again._

His robe rustled a little as he stepped closer, closing the distance between them. A hand fell on her shoulder, hesitant and light. “Don’t fret. I meant no offense.”

“No. You’re right. Don’t get on my case about the preaching though, _you_ tried to recruit Linzi.”

His eyes went wide and he quickly withdrew his hand as if burnt. “That was- I wasn’t… that wasn’t the same. I only asked her if she ever thought about joining.”

“Yeah, right.”

She threw him a wry glance, but he had averted his gaze, studying the pattern of his sleeves with great interest instead.

_This is ridiculous._

“If I can get the girl out of there, my Lady’s temple could be a good home for her in the future. She’s bright but misguided. Did you notice how she looks at you, by the way? She’s _very_ fond of you.”

Tristian cast a shy glance in her direction. “She is, indeed. Should we be focusing on that right now?”

“Just saying,” Annaie replied with a shrug. “I don’t like competition.”

He froze like a doe, eyes open so wide they could’ve been mistaken for saucers. Then he caught himself, coughed and looked away. “… I think we should return to the matter at hand.”

Yep. He was still adorable when teased. At least that hadn’t changed.

Unfortunately, the leaflet in her hand suddenly reminded her of its existence by noisily crunching in the wind.

Right. Cult in her town.

She sighed.

“I guess we should pay them a visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like exploding people aren't necessarily something you'd expect to be dealing with when establishing a barony. That, and clueless priests who somehow manage to draw the attention of every girl in a 10 mile radius, possibly you included.


	5. Sickness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was really hard for me to write. For music, look towards Angels from Within Temptation (don't judge me)

_“Demons are the darkness in all of us, my dove. Fighting them is like fighting your own shadow.”_

_“That sounds like we shouldn’t fight them.”_

_“We should, but we must remember to not become like them. Don’t give in to darkness, and never believe yourself incapable of evil.”_

* * *

Despite their access to horses, they walked the relatively short distance to the cult’s sacred meeting-place entirely on foot. Mostly because some of her companions still had to learn to properly sit in the saddle, Tristian tragically among them. They’d gotten the friendliest, most gentle horse they could find for him, but a good nature didn’t replace the rider’s sense of balance in a bind.

Much as she was looking forward to that particular endeavor, it would have to wait for less hectic times. If such a day would ever come… she was beginning to doubt it.

They arrived the morning of the supposed date, mostly to allow for preparation time; scouting the area, setting up an observation camp, observing recent activity… If only she had good Eryil by her side, for she and her ilk, the Inquisition, lived for the hunt of hiding evil-doers.

Granted, distributing invitations via leaflets wasn’t exactly the definition of ‘hiding’.

Her team had spread around her, waiting for instructions as usual. Tristian was the last to join them; he accidentally bumped into Octavia, apologized to her with a soft smile and finally focused his attention on their impatient leader.

She began to speak, going through the mental list she had made on the way. “Linzi and Jubilost, go and find a good spot to set up. Without arguments, preferably. We need to be out of sight, but able to observe the clearing. Ekun, grab Kaessi and scan the surroundings for anything out of place. Traps, traces of magic, signs of non-animal activity, you know the drill. Tristan, we’re going to check out the meeting place.”

Her team dispersed, each member setting out to take care of its task. Only Tristian anxiously remained by her side, alternating between folding his hands on his chest and nervously fiddling with his holy symbol. He’d been doing that for the past two or three hours, actually.

The priest nearly jumped out of his skin when she touched his shoulder. “Did you hear me?”

 He blinked at her, took a look around, then finally seemed to recognize that everyone else had left. His anxiety was starting to worry her; the subject wasn’t an easy one, but they’d faced complicated problems in the past and he’d always remained fairly grounded. This was new.

“Sorry, I was just… lost in thought,” he replied uneasily. “What was I meant to do?”

“Check out the clearing with me. Are you alright? Do you need a moment?”

He shook his head. “It’s fine, let’s go.”

She pursed her lips, but said no more. If he didn’t wish to talk about it, she wasn’t going to push it.

The path up to the clearing was even and obviously well-used, although the young grass growing through the trampled track showed that its last major use had been a while ago. They made their way up the path in silence, until they passed the first set of torches. She briefly paused.

The torches were definitely new. They hadn’t been used yet, and if they had stood here for any lengthy amount of time, the rain would’ve soaked them and ruined the wood.

The clearing that was meant to house the meeting… well, it honestly looked like any cultist meeting place she’d ever heard of. Granted, she hadn’t seen a ton of them in her life, but it had the torches, the sacrificial pit of… sacrifices – Iomedae spare her the details – in the middle, the giant ominous rock likely meant to elevate the cult leader above the crowd… but it mostly was the torches, really. Just gave it that something _special_.  

These structures aside, however, it seemed rather… ordinary. She detected no foreign energies, no foreboding sense of doom. No deeply disturbing aura. It was just a clearing used as a meeting place by strange people. She saw no blood, not even in the pit, although something looking suspiciously like bones stuck out from beneath the soil. The rain would’ve washed away any traces of violence long ago and she suspected they weren’t stupid enough to commit human sacrifices in the open and forget to cover them up.

“I sense no magic, divine or otherwise,” she stated, frowning. “You?”

Tristian had crossed his arms in a rare gesture of defensiveness, seeming strangely out of place and small. “Nothing,” he responded faintly. “If their supposed goddess has a presence, she is not here.”

Figured.

“Guess we won’t have to fear getting smitten by an angry deity then.”

“I suppose. Anything you want to do here?”

She took a look around, then quietly shook her head. “No, I just wanted to see the place. See if it’s ordinary or not.”

Tristian merely hummed, saying nothing otherwise.

“Let’s check for traps and head back. They should’ve found a good spot to set up camp at this point.”

Another hum. No, this wouldn’t do; he couldn’t stay so distracted if they were going to face this problem. She relied heavily on Tristian and his wisdom and abilities, him not being at full capacity was a somewhat intimidating thought.

Annaie stepped closer, leaving only an arm’s length between them, and focused an inquisitive gaze on his pensive face. “Are you ever going to talk about what troubles you?”

He blinked, caught off-guard by her approach. “I…”

An awkward silence settled between them, increasing in intensity through their locked gazes – seemingly waiting to see which one would give in first.

Finally, he folded his hands, exhaled and averted his flighty gaze. “I… feel a bit responsible for this problem. Matters of the people’s loyalty are my duty, and yet…”, he paused, scowled at the ground and sighed. “Cultists in the streets.”

_Oh, Tristian…_

To feel responsible for something like this was both like him and entirely nonsensical; people had free will, the ability to decide their own fates. If they wished to waste that fate by flocking to a false goddess, they, as the central authority, could at most hope to interfere. Still, it mattered to her that he cared; at this point, it only helped to confirm things she had long known, but it was reassuring to witness again and again.

“What could you have done differently, do tell.”

He frowned, opening and then immediately closing his mouth as if at a loss for words. “… Notice it earlier. Provide them with more safety, so they wouldn’t feel compelled to follow this goddess in the first place. Listen to their concerns...”

_Come and see how we listen to concerns in Mendev, and you’ll soon feel like a saint._

She brushed the thought aside, knowing very well how entirely unhelpful it was to compare… anything at all to Mendev, because things just tended to go a little bit differently when a hole in reality was your immediate neighbor. She turned to him, poised to speak. “You already listen far more than anyone I’ve ever had to work with, Tristian. Truth be told… it’s impressive you haven’t lost your patience with them.”

He frowned. “They’re afraid. Fear is a strong motivator to take action, no matter what kind.”

She took a moment to consider her answer, gazing at the macabre structures that surrounded them in silence. It helped nothing and no one to run from problems and only made things worse, but people wouldn’t take a moment to consider what impact their actions could have on others when their mortal existence was at stake.

Taking action, no matter what kind. Action was not inherently superior to inaction; a lesson only fools and slaves of fear hadn’t learned. She had little understanding of being so attached to one’s mortal being that one was willing to sacrifice the well-being of others for it. M0st of her life had been spent learning that her existence was to be used driving back the abyssal infection. Her silly affection for romantic fiction was the furthest she had ever dared to go towards a… “normal” life.

Perhaps she was simply out of touch with normal mortal needs.

Tristian stirred, likely tiring of waiting for her response. “Are you angry at them, Annaie?”

She scowled. “I am _frustrated_. It is hard enough to fight true evil without the thoughtless actions of those who _should_ be able to know better hindering my every step.”

“They don’t mean to do harm,” he implored. “Their minds are clouded.”

“I know. I _know_ that. I’m not good at being patient in the face of such flawed thinking. In my home country, cults are swiftly and thoroughly _eradicated_. No one questions whether they should be persecuted. Few such people ever make it to an actual trial alive. Those who do are usually sentenced to death. Only children escape this fate, they’re brought to a house of the goddess, where they may learn to live good, honest lives.”

“And you generally agree with this?”

His tone was neutral and contemplative, carrying no judgment as of yet. She exhaled deeply and ran a hand through her hair as she chewed on her cheek.

“While I was growing up, the worst of the Inquisition had already passed, but the paranoia around demon worshippers infiltrating the church was still ever-present. I reckon the current procedure is definitely an improvement.”

The knowing look in his eyes shamed her; he knew exactly what her evasive wording implied, and he was no doubt going to make use of it to convince her of his perspective with skilled, striking arguments. If not today, then some other day. She found that he rarely forgot their topics of discussion, as if he kept a catalog of issues to convince her of whenever the timing seemed right.

Yet, rather than expanding on the topic, he simply nodded. “I still ask you to show mercy to them if possible.”

“I figured. I can’t promise you anything, but I’ll do what I can.”

He lowered his head in gratitude.

“Let’s return, I have a feeling Linzi and Jubilost didn’t heed my advice.”

His hand shot forward and grabbed her arm, stopping her from moving farther. “Wait. There’s… one thing I’d like to address. I’d rather do so now before I find myself lacking the courage again.”

She arched a brow but offered him an encouraging nod. “Speak your mind.”

“It is not technically a matter to discuss here, and I… am not sure how to say this properly, but the matter with the cultists evading my sight for so long has finally confirmed a long-standing fear of mine... I believe the barony is slipping from my grasp as of late. The workload is starting to become more than I can handle.”

Was he _ashamed_? He almost seemed incapable of reconciling the fact that he, like any person, had a natural stress limit with the reality of governance, which was simply never going to be done. They worked and worked and still, there was always more work to be done. Obviously, that was only going to worsen as the barony grew in size and populace.

“Perhaps if I had addressed this sooner…”

He fiddled with his holy symbol, evading her gaze, not unlike a chastised child.

Her hands fell on his shoulders, startling him out of his self-made lecture. She’d tilted her head at him, smiling with furrowed brows. “You’re not responsible for this mess, so don’t even try blaming yourself. But if you had told me earlier, I probably could’ve saved you some stress. I think we could split the arts and culture matters from your department, that should be some weight off your shoulders.”

His face shifted, bearing the warmth of genuine relief. “That it would. Thank you, Annaie.”

Another person to give a salary to, of course, but it mattered little. She wasn’t going to start cutting corners on matters like these.

“Come, let’s walk back.”

Tristian nodded, and they began their descent down the path that had led them here.

As they approached the vicinity of their meeting place, the voices of a certain gnome and their energetic halfling bard arguing about a proper camping place with furious fervor steadily began to replace the silence. Annaie made the conscious decision to pointedly ignore their raised voices, although hearing Linzi speak sparked a thought that quickly pulled her into contemplation.

“Do you think Linzi would make for a good Curator?”

He tilted his head in thought. “I think so, though she may need an assistant to help her with the organization. And it would cut into her writing time, but I imagine she’d be quite ecstatic to be offered such a position.”

Faint echoes cut through the rustling of the wind. ‘Camping upstream would give us access to water and a better location for a campfire.’ – ‘This is a _stealth_ mission, what gave you the impression that we’re going to use a campfire?!’

_Goodness…_

“Would you be able to work with her?”

He furrowed his brow in an expression of mild confusion. “Of course.”

‘If the wind changes, we’re going to be surrounded by torch smoke!’ – ‘The wind isn’t going to change. It hasn’t changed at all since we entered the region.’ – ‘The risk is not worth some extra visibility, and there’s barely any space in there!’

They quickened their pace until they came upon the argumentative pair, whose lively discussion centered around two particularly useful spots in the vicinity. One, a small, uninhabited cave slightly to the north of the meeting place, would allow remaining hidden while observing the clearing. The other was further from the area, but it would allow for a proper camp.

“Sorry Linzi, normally I’d be with you, but we need the stealth this time around. That cave is a good spot to hide.”

The bard evidently tried to not look displeased by this decision, but she simply nodded and began to gather their camping supplies. Jubilost had already opened his mouth to speak, but Annaie interrupted him. “Jubilost, I saw a nice stump I could stuff you into on the way here. I’ll leave you there until we’re done if you don’t stop being smug. Headfirst.”  

Jubilost had the gall to look scandalized, though she took everything out of his mouth with a cart full of salt. “What a vengeful threat. You’d take so long that the position would likely kill me.”

She bent forward a little and fixed a ferocious stare on him. “Good thing you could annoy even _death_ enough to leave you alone.”

Such claims seemed to honor him more than they bothered him. Just as well. “And someday you’ll be _grateful_ for that skill.”

“I’m sure. Go and get the camouflage up, before ‘stumping’ joins your long list of experiences.”

The man waved dismissively. “Pah. Iomedites, always righteous until it’s inconvenient.”

“Whatever could you be on about, I consider it appropriate retribution for being a grumpy old man.”

Apparently, being called an old man did manage to annoy him, if the mild glare coming her way was any indication. The expression was fleeting, however, and he was soon back to his sardonic self, settling the matter with a shrug. “Rarely seen one of your kind with a tongue like yours, Baroness. Wherever did your church find you, I wonder.”

She pursed her lips. “Some weird angel painted a sword on my face and told the Clerics to teach me good manners, but they forgot. Then I ruined everyone’s reputation and made friends with a Hellspawn.”

“You called?”

Kaessi sauntered towards them with a broad smirk, tail gently swinging from side to side.  

“Wrong Hellspawn, but good to see you’re back. Anything to report?”

“Nothing but animals out there. Ekundayo’s still trailing some of the tracks, but I doubt it’s going to lead anywhere.”

While Kaessi spoke, Tristian had quietly retreated to the edge of their new camping place and dedicated his attention to murmuring gentle prayers to the Everlight. It was rude to disturb a priest in communion with his deity, so she left him to his own devices for the time being.

Near afternoon, the meeting place seemed to come to life. People appeared and put up tents and tables, checked the torches, tidied up the area and communicated with each other. It almost seemed like a macabre sort of faire or circus being assembled by its actors.

Come evening, they were going to crash this farce of a party.

* * *

_Dawnflower, o Healing Light, I beg you; grant her your protection should I fail. Great tragedy befalls this world the day she dies. Grant the safety I cannot give, the strength I do not have, and never let her falter._

So pleading were the words, so filthy on his lips, so true in his heart. How treacherous, to guide her into an ambush like the lowest of the low; she trusted him so wholly that she would never doubt a word from his lips, and yet each of them was poison. Every lie became another sin. All the deception, the misleading stories- he was distorting his own nature, it felt like ripping off his own skin inch by inch and replacing it with the hide of a fiend.

Even if Sarenrae would not speak to him, he begged she would at least recognize the loss inflicted upon this world should Annaie be taken from it through his actions.

He spent most of his time until evening in prayer, hoping to soothe the anxiety that grasped him with cold hands. The events happening in the camp passed beyond his notice, evading his attention for the majority of the day. The others wouldn’t disturb what likely appeared like intense preparation for the trials ahead.

It was, in a way. Just not the way they thought.

Come afternoon, he took a short break to soothe his aching legs and walked a short distance around the cave when he spotted a strange-looking black cat a little ways off the camp. The creature tilted its head, nodded farther away from the cave and dashed away.

He followed it, although he wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Finally, he spotted the feline waiting for him in a small, hidden crevice. It licked its paw, brushed its ear and then proceeded to turn to him with large, inquisitive eyes.

A thin, scratchy voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. “Finally, do you ever stop talking to your goddess?”

He frowned. “Who are you?”

“I serve our most gracious lady, Skylark. You needn’t know more than that.”

His stomach sank at the mere mention of his ‘title’ among Nyrissa’s ilk. Of course. What else could it be? This cat was likely a Fey being, tasked with keeping an eye on the Cleansed.

“I have news for you,” the cat purred. “Regarding tonight’s mission.”

“Speak. I cannot stay away long.”

The creature's tail flicked, measures of impatience in the absence of an expressive face. “Reckon they will suspect you now, _Betrayer_ , after all that you’ve gotten away with? Ridiculous. You have time, so be quiet and listen to my words. The faithful have been informed of your presence in the region. They will prepare an ambush for your Baroness, but you must ensure that she remains peaceful until we strike. Have her not move, so the arbalists can get into position. Six of them will be watching the perimeter, ready to aim for the target.”

Six arbalists. Six bolts to protect her from.

“Understood,” he replied.

“Good. Do not fail us, Skylark. Our Queen is nearing her goal after all these centuries, this petty realm shall be one of the last to fall. Without their Baroness to guide them, their government will crumble.”

“I need no lectures,” he answered flatly.

“The mistress disagrees. She thinks you have forgotten who you serve.” The creature’s eyes narrowed to yellow slits. “She thinks you have forgotten who holds your chains.”

As if he ever could. Every step in this body without its wings was heavy and draining, every day he could not feel the wind pass his feathers was a day lost to mourning. Even after years and years, the pain never ceased.

“The loss of the self is hard to forget,” he droned. “Believe me, I remember.”

A low hum vibrated within the feline’s throat, a gentle purr of wordless contempt. “As if your shell makes you a thing, you silly fool. You angels and your rules, your constructs. The First World cares not for death, and it changes forever and ever. How can you even stand eternity, when everything remains the same? Today I am a cat, tomorrow I’ll be a dragon, perhaps, while you’ll still be crying about these wings you lost.”

His jaw clenched, teeth silently grinding against each other until they ached. This creature had no right to judge him, no means to understand his plight. His wings weren’t just his shell, they were his _divinity_ ; the essence of his soul. He had lost much more than just his feathers.

“Just as well, Skylark. If it keeps you chained, I needn’t care for the reasons. Be on your way, and I’ll be on mine. Remember your duty.”

The cat made an impossible leap, scaling the walls of the crevice with otherworldly grace. Its dark frame disappeared beyond the rocky outcrops of the landscape, leaving him behind with this unworthy task. To kill Annaie… the day he fell so low, he hoped some merciful being out there would strike him down. His own goddess, if need be – such evil could never be wrought by his hands.

Not by him, not by anyone else. She was to live, to live long and well, to become the light she had the potential to be, the light he saw shining within her soul when the sun had her back.

Even if he couldn’t be by her side, she deserved as much.

* * *

When the crowd began to gather, the party set out to join the company of the Cleansed. Tristian remained near his unwitting charge, watching the crowd and the surrounding rocks for signs of the mentioned arbalists. For the moment, things remained peaceful – he had pleaded with her to attempt diplomacy first, both to satisfy the demands of his cruel Fey mistress and for the sake of his own conscience. If this matter could be resolved without bloodshed…

Unlikely, but it wouldn’t stop him from hoping.

In the beginning, they remained near the edge of the area, close enough to listen to the speaker on top of the central rock. Annaie’s face immediately became one of annoyance; her golden eyes fixated on the man’s rugged appearance, the torn clothes, the buildup of filth and the greasy hair.

“Remus,” she hissed. “I banished him from my lands. People really aren’t keen on following my rules, for some reason.”

He laid a hand on her arm. “Peace,” he beseeched gently, hoping to quell the seeds of irritation before they could sprout and bloom. His words seemed to have some kind of effect, for she sighed, but relaxed slightly.

Once Remus had finished his speech, the girl they had interrogated in the capital addressed the crowd, announcing the presence of the First Faithful.

False faith. People tricked into believing lies and damnation. The whole philosophy of this… cleansing was cruel and misguided. The mere thought that Nyrissa had spread such beliefs made his stomach churn; faith wasn’t just a matter of ideology, it was a matter of the soul. The afterlife. Eternity.

Celestial soldiers guarded the just reward that awaited good mortal souls. Many of these people who had fallen for Nyrissa’s manipulation would find themselves facing a lifetime of repentance to make up for the sins of this cult, if they ever _could_ make up for it.

They certainly wouldn’t if death took them now.

The so-called First Faithful stepped into the light of the torches, face a terrible grimace of hatred and fury. There was anger within these souls, raw pain and hurt. The Trolls had taken their families, and now the Bloom… so many souls such as Ekundayo, many of them vastly less righteous in the face of blatant injustice.

Where Annaie saw broken laws, he saw broken souls and broken promises. Never would he cease to nudge her another way. She had the heart to understand if only she was made aware of these meandering paths.

The man addressed the crowd with a booming voice, but beneath it, he heard fear. He heard a man who wasn’t nearly as steadfast as his title made him act. Nyrissa had empowered a hurt and meek man to become the vessel for something greater.

“My subjects! Servants of the kingdom of the Cleansed! Today is a special day, the day we have long prayed for!”

Annaie’s hand dropped to the hilt of her longsword but merely came to loosely rest on it. She was prepared and wary, but calm.

His eyes scanned the surroundings once more. Beyond the tent of the First Faithful, the shadow of a man flashed past, crossbow in hand.

 _There’s the first_ , he thought. They were getting to their positions now, hiding beyond the reaches of the torchlight. If he still had his celestial senses, spotting them would’ve been easy, but now he had to strain his eyes against the dark.

“Today we shall finally wash away the filth from our souls, and clear the path for our kingdom.”

A second arbalist entered his periphery vision. The man seemed unconcerned by his attention.

“I don’t like this,” Annaie hissed.

“Remain calm,” he replied, fingers brushing against her wrist. The longing to hold her hand was as strong as it was inconvenient, for he couldn’t afford to give his intentions away.

“For today, the sacrament will end with a long-awaited sacrifice, which will please the goddess more than all our prayers.”

The hand on her hilt, once only loosely placed, now curled around the grip with visible tension.

“Don’t let their boasting get to you,” he whispered, leaning towards her until he thought he could hear her heartbeat push wild blood through her veins. Her breathing had sped up; she was vastly more riled than he had expected her to be.

“Blood sacrifice… such _filth_.”

The third arbalist entered his vision, hidden away behind a set of tables.

They had them surrounded, he realized with chagrin. Their companions were too busy suspiciously eyeing the crowd to notice the assassins in the shadows. If he alerted them, he risked giving himself away.

 _Damnation_ …

“Once, the goddess asked us meager sheep to repent our sins, but in our pride we were deaf to her appeals.”

The sound of her teeth grinding momentarily distracted him. Something about this was drawing her ire, feeding oil into a long-smoldering fire. Cults... apostasy. False deities. Mendev wrestled with demons at every hour. Their warriors would have little love left for those who strayed from the path of deities good and kind, nevermind false gods and demons.

Four. The man had scaled a tree, putting himself in perhaps the most dangerous position yet. Even if he could spot them all, he would be hard-pressed to defend her from all of them. He couldn’t cast a shield around her fast enough… no, this would have to…

“Now she demands another sacrifice.”

_Don’t draw-_

His hand shot forward, gently grasping her wrist. “Don’t.”

Fifth. Where was the sixth? _Where_? He was running out of time-

“What do you say, Baroness? Are you prepared to sacrifice your useless life for these people, who you claim to care about?” the First Faithful hollered, voice distorted by triumphant rage. The crowd turned towards her, faces of disdain, of fury, of sorrow and dismay. Had she ever been the target of such hatred? How he wished he could shield her.

“I am loyal to my _subjects_ ,” she growled with ferocious fury, “you have forfeited the right to be among them, you crazy morons.”

Such disdain rarely passed her lips. He worried, oh how he worried-

 _Six_. There. He had found them all, now if only he could-… they were all in position, deathly still, crossbows drawn and trained on her, only on her. If he hoped to protect her, there was only one way to go.

Down.

Ruthgert raised his hand – signal? Signal to _fire_.

Down. Down, down, _down_ \- he shoved her with his entire weight, _all of it_ , there was no time. She yelped, bolts whistled past him from all directions. Chaos struck, everyone scattered.

Stinging pain in his chest, it knocked the wind out of him. He staggered, stumbled, dropped to his knees, struggling to catch his breath. It ached, how it _ached_ -

“Tristian?!”

She pushed him up by his shoulders-

“I’ll be… fine… fight,” he struggled to speak, but it was enough. She leapt to her feet and dashed, sword drawn; her halo flashed into existence, flooding the clearing with light.

His fingers dug into the grass, forehead resting against the cool ground.

 _Breathe_.

Chaos raged around him. Two bodies hit the ground, then three. The crowd of cultists dispersed in the face of Annaie’s vastly superior fighting skills – and perhaps the fear of the gods, for the sight of true divinity brandished and wielded like a sword was scarcely fathomable to the gods’ servants, let alone the common folk.  

 _Focus_.

So many ran long before the end of the battle, fleeing into the darkness of the landscape beyond. The bulk of the fight only took seconds, but they felt like a true eternity.

Every breath ached, splitting his ribs; he had to force himself up to see, to _know_ what his deeds had wrought, what his cowardice wreaked upon these poor folks. They deserved not her wrath, but she fought like a lioness, teeth bared. This soul he cherished, this woman he… loved, in some way, some fashion, even if it scarcely made sense.

_O Healing Light…_

Ruthgert faltered under Annaie’s sword, he stumbled and fell. The realization of his defeat hit him with the force of the divine; shock and horror and fear, the fear that had made him Nyrissa’s faithful, another of her unwitting servants. For a moment, the man’s furious, maddened eyes focused on him and him alone.

Hatred, utter hatred, pouring out of him like a choking poison.  

His chest _ached_.

“The goddess will hear of this betrayal,” Ruthgert spat, but Tristian had already bent forward with a shiver. It hurt, it hurt too much. Was it even the bolt?

Annaie raised her sword, but the First Faithful kicked over a torch towards her legs, giving himself the moment he needed to jump to his feet and flee with the survivors.

“ _Shit_. Ekun, track them.”

“N-… no!” he called out, followed by immediate regret, for he choked and doubled over.

Immediately she dropped to her knees by his side, sword recklessly thrown into the grass. Her hands grasped his shoulders so tight her fingers dug into his skin through the fabrics; in her eyes there was fury, unbridled _fury_. The rage of a scorching sun, the fire of Heaven. But beyond that, there was fear, cold, grappling dread.

He coughed, wheezed, then blood pooled in his mouth, ran past his lips and dripped from his chin, puddled in his hand, poured down his throat and into his stomach, making him gag with its metallic taste.

 _Bolt_. Bolt in chest. Pierced his lung.

His hand brushed over his ribs, searching the source of the pain. _There_. The feeling of wood, stinging pain upon touch. Every breath, pain. Harsh, searing, the sound of wheezing, the sense of liquid filling his lungs.

Had to stop the bleeding.

 _Heal_.

She held up his body, giving him room to focus; he leaned against her, pressed his hand against his chest-

_Ignore the pain, it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t._

He wheezed the words more than he chanted them, but he weaved the spell, his breath steadied, his pain eased-

“Don’t… chase them,” he coughed, although she scowled, scowled with such dark, ferocious fury. “They’re just… lost souls…”

…His lung still had a crossbow bolt stuck in it.

Pursed lips, glancing back and forth between him and the last of the fleeing cultists rapidly passing out of sight. The thought had her grinding her teeth for a long, silent moment, jaw set until he thought he heard her teeth crack under the strain.

Ekun glanced at her, apathy written upon his face.

“Let them go,” she finally hissed between clenched teeth, though the darkness did not fade from her eyes. Such fury did not belong there, did not suit her and her kindness. She loathed, she hated. Why such hate?

Taking care of him distracted her from the cultists. If they ended up caught, they’d be sure to find out about his connection to Nyrissa. It was kindness that drove him to ask for mercy, but for once, he had an interest in it for his own sake. He didn’t want to leave her side, although he had no right to be with her in the first place; if he could remain for a bit longer, just for a while…

Her arms carefully pushed him back by the shoulders, hoping to avoid coming in contact with the wound. He appreciated it, though it unfortunately helped only marginally. “What happened- what did you _do_?”

The force in her voice was a weak attempt at hiding the panic beyond it.

“Bolt pierced my… lung…”

Her eyes widened even further, mirroring the surge of fear that seemed to hit her like a shockwave.

_Oh no, not good._

“Is fine… healed the damage around… no bleeding.”

It took the edge off the situation – for the moment, the bolt was plugging the wound. Ineffectual as her healing was, she obviously retained some rudimentary medical knowledge, enough to understand that he was no longer in danger of _worsening_ for the time being. The tension that held up her shoulders ceased; she released the breath she’d been holding, shaky and wheezing. It took her two attempts to visibly swallow the dryness of her throat and mouth and within moments, the force she had hidden behind unfurled, faded, laid bare the vulnerability beneath.

There. Beyond the bravado, the ferocity, the rage, there was the familiar, kind warmth that he had first come to cherish. How had her church failed so greatly in nurturing it, that it had grown into such consuming rage?

He couldn’t leave her. Who would lend her patience when she had none?

Her deep anxiety eased to a low but ever-present sense of tension. Golden eyes fell on his injury, then a hand cupped his cheek, warm against his pale, cold skin. The air was freezing cold, stinging every inch of skin laid bare; his body struggled with keeping warm. She though… she was warm, he could sense it even with the distance now between them. He _remembered_. It wouldn’t take much to lean into her again, and he knew she would _let_ him. But- he shouldn’t.

It wasn’t his place.

But he could lean into her hand a little, right? He could… She would let him… She would…

He did, and so did she; her lips formed a faint smile, although it was a tired, exhausted gesture. “We need to get you back to camp so we can get that thing out.”

He nodded weakly, disconnecting from her hand as he did. They could remove it here, but then he would have to close up fast, without being able to properly clean the wound. “I can walk.”

Never before had he seen doubt spelled so plainly on someone’s face.

“I can carry you,” she replied instead. “Just need to get out of my chest plate-“

“N-no, it’s fine. Please. Let me walk.”

There were a thousand reasons for not wishing to have her carry him back to camp, ranging from sheer pride to not wanting to be this physically close to her for such a long distance. His body reacted in unpredictable ways when she was near, although the pain was plenty distracting. The pain itself was another reason all on its own, for he could barely breathe without aching. On his own legs, he wanted to believe he could move with minimal pain, but he doubted she could carry him without causing tremors in his torso all over the place.

They stared at one another for a long, silent moment. No one said anything, the other members of the group simply observed their interactions in utter silence. She scowled mildly, while he stubbornly held her gaze, even as the wheezing worsened.

“You make terrible decisions, Tristian. Fine, walk. But if you stumble, I _will_ carry you the rest of the way,” she insisted. Her gaze told him with absolute certainty that she was entirely serious, although they both knew that she could not force him – her dogma did not allow it.

“Ekun, I’d be grateful if you could carry my chest plate, just in case.”

The Ranger nodded as Annaie had already undone the buckles with trained precision and speed, untied the standard of Iomedae that covered her chest and wrapped it around the armor, then handed both to their companion. The moment she let go of him, he already partially regretted his decision, for he was now carrying his weight entirely alone and it was… heavier than he had expected.

She leapt to her feet first, then offered him both her arms to hold on to while he fought to pull himself back up; for a moment he just stood there grasping her arms and wheezing heavily, creating noises that might as well have come from a walking corpse.   

While he stood there breathing like a fish, she gently dislodged an arm from his grasp, reached out to his chest and mumbled a prayer. Memories of their first meeting flooded him- that time he had woken up in the upstairs room of the trade post, soon engulfed by the same warmth and feeling of home. The pain didn’t cease, but it lessened enough for him to steady his breathing and take a tentative step.

“At least let me support you,” she grumbled, then pulled his arm over her shoulder, taking part of his weight upon herself. He didn’t dare say it after being so confident in his strength, but he was immensely grateful for the support.

* * *

One arm around his back, she helped him walk back to the cave – they made it about half of the way before he predictably stumbled. She’d felt it coming long before that, for his breath grew less steady with every step, but she let him continue his idiotic attempt at making it on his own. For whatever reason, Tristian seemed to have moments of trying to be strong when he _really_ didn’t need to be. Almost as if he was… too proud to admit weakness, even though he so often portrayed great humility.

When he finally stumbled, she grasped him by the shoulders and caught his gaze with an arched brow.

He almost seemed to _pout_ at her. “Maybe we should just… treat the wound here.”

Ekun of all people hurried to her valiant defense. “Wild animals in the area will smell the blood. Camp is more defensible.”

The last bit of resistance in his eyes swiftly died. She didn’t bother waiting for a verbal confirmation; one arm around his back, one underneath his legs, she hoisted him up with little difficulty. Tristian was fairly tall, but he was far from heavy. The man had some muscle mass, but hardly impressive amounts, and he certainly didn’t have much body fat.

He seemed a little surprised by the ease she picked him up with - and how little it seemed to hurt - but his arm still coiled around her shoulders for stability. As she began to walk, it finally seemed to dawn on him that this was hardly any effort at all.

“I don’t weigh anything… to you, do I…”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “I’ve carried grown men in full plate armor. You’re a stick. No offense.”

That seemed to have the opposite effect; his gaze dropped and grew somewhat distant.

“You know, there is no shame in admitting that you need help.”

He blinked, then stared at her with a surprisingly fierce look. “You are really not the right person to say that.”

 _Oof_.

She frowned but said nothing in return, although she was unwilling to admit that his response had stunned her into silence. They walked the rest of the way without speaking, and in the absence of words, the reality of the situation slowly began to sink in. The Cleansed were scattered to the wind; she may never find them again. Perhaps they would fester and spread in darkness, now that she had failed to drag them into the light. Mendev had seen such progressions time and time again. Fail to curb the infection in its infancy and suffer the consequences.

Tristian’s injury had scared her, but most of the terror had passed – he did have a crossbow bolt stuck in his lung, but his healing skills had become so potent that the biggest challenge would be pulling the thing out in one piece. Once they reached their little cave, she gently sat him down on a bed roll in the back, trying to move without bumping into the bolt sticking out of his chest. His breathing had become raspy, but he was awake and aware and capable of listening to instructions.

“Jubilost, the med stuff. Give it to me.” She stretched out a hand in an expectant gesture.

“Med stuff. That’s-“

“The stump’s still out there waiting for you,” she interrupted, eyeing him from the side.  

He wordlessly grabbed Tristian’s satchel and threw it her way, nearly knocking her in the head with it.

Annaie gracefully ignored Kaessi’s snort as well as Tristian’s apologetic looks and decided to forego snapping at the gnome, for she had more important things to take care of. “Can you take your clothes off?” she inquired.

“Some,” Tristian replied hoarsely. Together, they got him out of his robes, the tunic underneath, his belt and his faith’s standard, leaving him only with his padded undershirt, which she mercilessly cut apart, ignoring his somewhat indignant stare.

“Damn clerics and your damn layers,” she muttered under her breath. “I’m gonna skin that bastard alive if I ever find him….”

His hand shot forward and grabbed her wrist, accompanied by a fierce stare of his striking eyes. “That’s unworthy of you.”

They glared at one another, neither of them speaking a word. Silence suffocated the atmosphere of the cave, thankfully empty safe for Jubilost quietly rummaging through something in his secluded corner. If the gnome had heard the exchange, he mercifully said nothing.

He was right. Anger or not, a Cleric of her faith had no business uttering such cruelty. Still, she scowled, gazing furiously at the ground. It harkened too much of being scolded by her elders, reprimanded for behavior unwanted and discouraged.

Except in this case, she certainly had… crossed a line.  

His hand retreated from her wrist, as if he had suddenly come to realize what he’d done; his gaze dropped, his brows furrowed, and his nostrils flared as he exhaled.  “I apologize.”

“No,” she replied unsteadily. “I cannot act like a spoiled child.”

Her hand passed through her hair which had become tousled and wild, she shook her head and released a deep sigh.

This day was a mess, everything was a mess. She needed to go home, find a shrine to throw herself into the dirt in front of and beg Iomedae for guidance, _some_ kind of it, because she was starting to feel way out of her depth.

Starting. Right. Like she hadn’t felt that way all along.

No matter for the moment. Tristian’s injury was more important.

“I’ll pull the bolt,” she stated, leaving little room for arguments. The fact that he had healed the damage around the shaft meant that he had saved himself from further internal bleeding, but it would make the removal a much more painful endeavor. She definitely didn’t envy him right now.

To think, that would have been her… she wasn’t nearly as skilled at healing her own injuries. Any injury she sustained was a setback the barony couldn’t afford, especially with the epidemic this monster affliction was beginning to turn into.

“Y-yeah, but it needs to be… fast.”

He seemed understandably unexcited.

“Hmm,” she replied gently. “Is it barbed?”

Tristian shook his head. “Straight tip.”

 Her hands tightly wound around the bolt, drawing pained hisses through mere touch, no matter how much care she put into her grip. “On three?”

He clamped his eyes shut and nodded.

“One, two-“

An agonized yelp briefly startled her companions out of their tasks and his cramped fingers clawed into her shoulder with surprising strength, but the bolt came out in one piece. Not missing a beat, she pressed her hand down on the resulting wound, directing her meager healing skills towards easing his pain until he could take over. Tristian immediately began to treat himself once the shock had settled, first cleaning out the filth, then undoing what remained of the internal damage he had sustained.

“Sorry,” she muttered as the hectic urgency of the moment slowly dissipated. “Didn’t want to risk having you jerk and break it.”

He only nodded, focused on his task. The bolt in her hand was immeasurably filthy, the iron tip was rusty, the wood covered in dirt… all of that had made its way into his wound. He’d be lucky to experience no aftermath even with thorough cleaning, but thankfully he was adept at treating disease as well.

Worst case, she could still ask the grumpy gnome in the corner for advice.

“Do you need anything?”

Tristian moved to reply, yet ere he could speak another word, several harsh coughs shook his shoulders, ejecting bloody mucus into his sullied hands till she handed him a rag to clean himself with and catch the subsequent bouts of bloody cough. The rattles and rasps slowly subsided, until he only sat there breathing quietly for a moment, back bent and shoulders rolled forward.

“Should’ve seen that coming,” he finally groaned in return and yet, a visible shudder shook him for a brief moment. “Unpleasant… experience...”

She handed him a blanket to cover himself with, which he gratefully accepted and pulled around his shoulders. Despite the treatment of his injury, Tristian’s breathing remained ragged and somewhat shallow; he was obviously still tired. Recovering fully from that wound would at the very least require Greater Restoration skills… or better yet, simply getting some rest.

“You should still lie down for a bit,” she instructed gently. “No complaints.”

He seemed rather uninspired to truly complain about his predicament; he simply let himself fall back and allowed his head to drop onto his pillow; finally, a shaky breath left him, then another. His breathing wouldn’t steady, although combat had long since passed.

 “Can you keep me company for a while…” her priest muttered quietly, almost too faint to hear.

_That’s new…_

“Sure,” she nonetheless replied. Her back fell against the cave wall by his side, legs stretched on the floor and arms crossed; the tension of the moment seemed to slide off her shoulders like a cascade as she sighed.

Tristian, on the other hand, didn’t seem to benefit quite the same. He was visibly anxious, perhaps a little addled because of exhaustion, but overall the injury should no longer have this effect on him. Whatever still rattled him, the wound wasn’t it.

“Tristian… are you alright?” she breathed somberly. His eyes closed with a gentle flutter.

“Yes…”

A beat of silence.

“No, no, I’m… actually, I’m not. I’ll never get used to how quickly a peaceful conversation can turn into bloody battle. This was so cruel and… pointless…”

His voice had taken on a dark tone, the low hum of pointless bloodshed. For once in their many months together however, Annaie couldn’t help but snort at such misjudgment from his mouth.

“They were talking about sacrificing people. This was never peaceful, not by any measure. They were willing to shed blood from the start. This has happened many times before and yet you have never been so shaken by it, Tristian. What’s different?”

His eyes remained closed as he spoke. “Ordinary people and their mistaken faith are a step beyond what we usually face.”

“True. Most people have the brainpower to pick a _real_ evil god.”

His eyelids fluttered, revealing the sharp glow within his golden irises homing in on her face. Her words had visibly displeased him, feeding a fierce but well-restrained strength within. “Your attitude on this matter does not suit you,” he said, a faint tone of disapproval creeping through the jaws of his restraint. She had rarely seen him emotional, but as of late, his control seemed to be coming undone; perhaps the masks were coming off for the both of them, cracks forming with every word they spoke.

“I cannot abide suffering borne from sheer _idiocy_. Evil I get, evil I understand. Evil does what it does because it was born to do it. People have the unique ability to be better and they fail anyway, because they don’t have the foresight to stop and think about their actions for one damned second.”

_Stupid. How do I judge stupid?_

She couldn’t read the expression on his face. Was it scandal, was it disdain? Was it disappointment, perhaps, upon realizing that she was such a judgmental brat at the end of the day?

Yes, it was true. She couldn’t bring herself to muster sympathy for people such as members of this cult. Too many of her kin had fallen prey to the demon worshippers of the Worldwound, people who gave themselves to eternal damnation for _nothing_ , for the promise of something that could never be worth the price it cost.

If he had anything to say, she wasn’t going to hear it. Not yet. “One of my friends nearly died out there because they think offering themselves to this completely braindead cult is going to make anything better. I hate such people more than I could ever hate demons. Demons are _born_ from the suffering and idiocy people inflict on themselves over and over. But no, people think they can’t be evil, because they can’t fathom-…  as if evil is some kind of binary state, some kind of switch and suddenly you’re sacrificing orphans at an altar!”

“Annaie-“

 “No, listen. Half the bad things happening out here happen because people can’t be bothered to stop and think and I don’t know how I’m supposed to _fix_ it. I show mercy to these cultists, and next week some grief-stricken mother is going to come barging into my court and demand that I bring her son back to life, because they sacrificed him in some misguided attempt to regain their goddess’ favor. Bet he offered himself up for it, too. It’s difficult enough to be dealing with things that have no crisis of conscience attached to them, but this shit-“

“Annaie,” he interrupted, firmer this time. “Is it truly hatred you feel, or is it frustration because you feel helpless?”

She paused and fixed an intense stare on him – but he held her gaze, stubbornly refusing to look away. They remained locked, fixed on each other for a long, heavy moment.

“Do you think I am incapable of hatred?” she finally managed between clenched teeth. “Because I assure you, I am not. It’s my darkness.”

Like a wave that crushed over her, the pain, the anger, the frothing madness. The _hate_. Amongst it, traces of her father’s voice, slivers of peace, his wisdom; falling apart and turning into sad wisps of days gone by.

Mortal weakness.

Mercy for those who erred and sinned.

The memories began to trickle past her, puddling in her mind. Darkness had grasped these men and women at their lowest hour, twisting their fear into hatred.

She knew hatred. Her eyes fell shut; she let the images cascade onto her, washing the environment away.

 

>  “Eryil,” she spoke. Her tongue felt numb, as if refusing to speak the words. The last of the light was waning, but it framed the feather in her hands, just enough to turn the ragged fringes a faint orange. Fourteen feathers rested in a box upon her shelf, each patterned like the sky, the wind, the leaves, the cloaks. The shifting wings that never seemed the same.
> 
>  A feather for each year.
> 
> A bloodied feather for the last.
> 
> “He’s dead.”
> 
> A beat.
> 
> “I know.”
> 
> Sullen. Somber. Who had this crusade not taken, crippled or sullied? Who hadn’t lost to the endless, shrieking hordes? Who hadn’t dreamed to burn them to ashes, them and their servants who bathed in their filth; let the inferno devour and incinerate, then scatter to the wind what’s left?
> 
> “Why can’t they revive him?”
> 
> Her lips twitched.
> 
> It stings. Iomedae had failed to protect her finest. Why bother trying, if even she could not be bothered?
> 
> “They took his soul,” she rattled hoarsely. The feather twisted between her thumb and fingers, round and round; it never stopped, just like eternity never stopped. Eternity that he would never see.
> 
> Something wet stained her face, cool on her skin.

The memory passed her mind like sand, but her eyes remained closed. A heartbeat, then another; Tristian’s hand gently brushed against hers.

“Annaie?” he rasped.

Her eyelids fluttered. She exhaled, fended off the pain that squeezed her chest and focused her gaze on him, his striking eyes, his furrowed brows… his tender concern.

_Anchor yourself._

The sting made way for the loathe, the fire. The fury. That memory, too, returned to her, clawing into her ribcage with tenacious rage. It burned hot and fierce and strong- a tempting flame, a seductive power to tap into. Rage was energy, rage was the power in a strike… it was the ferocity of abyssal evil.

To hate demons was to _feed_ them. But there was one among them she couldn’t _not_ hate.

She just couldn’t.

The words came by themselves; clawing their way out of her, pushing past the lump in her throat. “I hated Khorramzadeh. I _loathed_ him. For years, whenever I dreamed, I saw myself tearing him apart limb by limb. When it’s dark and I feel alone and there’s nothing to quell this wellspring of hatred, I still do. That’s my darkness. My actual demon.”

His fingers gently grasped her palm, lightly squeezing it; she felt his warmth mix with her own.

“I have never encountered hatred that didn’t serve to mask a deeper pain,” he whispered softly. “You are an exceptional person in many ways, but I doubt you are going to be the exception to this particular rule.”

Pain. Her lips twitched, driven by a faint sense of irony. Pain begets pain. It practically bred itself. Even unintentionally, if not kept in check.

“Pain always creates darkness.”

The pressure on her palm grew stronger, remaining nonetheless gentle and warm. Flighty and reluctant as he was with their shared affections, she feared acknowledging their joining in words would shatter the moment.

Tristian sat up, groaning only slightly now, and leaned against the wall next to her. Despite the change in position he wouldn’t let go of her hand, as if safeguarding it against some outside force hoping to pry them apart.

He could hold it forever, if he felt like it. She wouldn’t mind.

“You use that term so much. It must mean something more to you.”

Her father’s voice echoed in her skull unbidden. Some of the last words he had ever spoken to her, and he’d used it to impart to her the wisdom that she now fought to never forget, even in the face of everything this place had thrown at her.

_Don’t give in to darkness, and never believe yourself incapable of evil._

Her voice was straining now; she struggled against it, refusing to become a prisoner of grief.  “My father used to call the parts of us that are capable of making us commit deeds of great evil a person’s own darkness. That from which mortal evil is born. Our mortal weakness. The teachings of our-“

She faltered. It was no longer _her_ Order. They had essentially disowned her and dissolved her connection to her father’s legacy, cleansing his name of her existence. It mattered little to the church at large, for their blood was well-known, but she had lost the right to associate herself with them. Tristian had visibly caught her slip, eyes narrowing at her pause, but he mercifully let the matter rest.

“The teachings of… his Order claim that purity can only be achieved through rigorous self-control and true good is twofold. One must act out deeds of virtue externally, and one must control the sins of the self internally. Only then is the soul proper and clean. I pray once a day and meditate if the need arises, but members of my old Order will sometimes pray several hours a day. All day, even. They are some of the… of the most devoted among Iomedae’s flock.”

And she had lost her chance with them.

She should shut up. She should stop talking. Somehow he always made her spew the nonsense that none other needed to know, her weaknesses that she kept confined, the blasphemous thoughts in her head, the sadness that was selfish and inconsequential. These things needed no voice, but he demanded of her that she give it to them, that she made them real with words summoning them into reality.

Being weak felt less shameful when he was around. A sobering truth.

For a long, heavy moment, neither of them said anything. He seemed to stare into the distance, thinking of things way beyond this plane of existence. The grip on her hand tightened only slightly, barely noticeable if she weren’t so focused on the sole point of physical connection between them.

His voice was strangely soft, even, when he began to speak. “I sometimes wonder if the Paladins realize what they lost when they sent you away.”

She snorted dismissively. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I did. I was kicked out for a reason, believe me.”

Another squeeze.

“Then tell me. Let me judge for myself.”

“No. I’d rather not.” She withdrew her hand, feeling strangely boxed in all of a sudden. Tristian would never push it, she knew that – but once again she had let go of so many inches of herself. She wasn’t ready to let go of more. “Enough, Tristian. You can dissect my past another time.”

“As you wish,” he replied, a sense of sadness trailing his voice. “I still need to thank you for letting the Cleansed go. Their deaths would weigh heavy on my heart.”

She glanced at him. “Do not thank me, I have something to ask of you in return.”

His brows furrowed.

“Make sure that this act of charity doesn’t come back to bite me.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Silence reigned between them. When he began to speak, his words were slow and heavy. “I will… seek out members of the Cleansed returning to the capital. We must find the First Faithful, they are nothing but confused and misguided people without his leadership.”

She snorted. “Misguided people who were happy to sacrifice me.”

The memories of demon sacrifices faintly echoed in her mind. There’d always been stories the novices and acolytes shared among themselves. Legends, myths they’d told each other in the dark. These things had lost their fun once one of their own was found cut into pieces and fed to the dark ambitions of a cult in the capital; a 14-year-old girl who had endured unspeakable things before finally succumbing to death. It had been a major matter within the confines of the temple, but such news scarcely made it outside.

Most members of that cult met with the chopping block. Some with the stake. She’d been only 13 at the time – but she still remembered the executions in vivid detail. Beyond that… she remembered the lack of pity, of sympathy. She remembered wondering if she was broken for not mourning such death.

 She remembered seeing the girl’s mutilated, broken body, and the first time she felt hate.

Many such incidents shook the faithful during the long years of the crusade. Demons fought with dirty means, but no one bat an eye when the progeny of evil incarnate consumed the heart of a virgin, or murdered an infant, or fed entire families to the flames. It was the ferocity of their human servants that never ceased to horrify those unfortunate enough to oppose them.

She snapped out of her thoughts, glanced to the side and saw Tristian staring at her, brows furrowed in contemplation. How much time did he spend trying to figure her out, she wondered. All the secrets she never shared. He was ever curious, but she wasn’t willing to unmask the cracks in her armor.

“Find the First Faithful. Then we may speak.”

* * *

The return to the capital was uneventful. Tristian had easily healed his injury and returned to his work after a single day of rest. In the face of a lack of better news, she found herself waiting once again. Waiting for something, _anything_.

New reports of monsters surfaced daily. Every monster was another dead person. Another child, another mother, another father. Another soul on her conscience.

Tristian was strangely withdrawn in the aftermath, but she had no desire to push it- everyone was on edge, herself included. Paranoia had grasped many of those in the know; everyone could turn out to be infected. Worse, she herself felt it – each cough now was a potential sign of a deadly disease. She wasn’t afraid to die, but she couldn’t leave while her barony was in the process of turning into a monster circus.

She spent much of her time meditating, digging her way through documents, studying medical books or honing her fighting skills. The latter mostly as a way to blow off steam, which she now seemed to have an endless amount of. Waiting for things to happen didn’t suit her, she was a person to march forward and face troubles head-on.

Valerie often occupied the training dummies in the yard, battering the poor things with her bastard sword. That particular day, she had foregone armor and her shield, two-handing the weapon with the usual grace of a fighter.

Annaie couldn’t help but admire Valerie’s efficiency with the sword, for she was skilled at finding the fastest way to end someone’s life, cruel as it sounded. A swift death was often the only mercy they could offer to their foes.

“Val,” she greeted, hand casually raised. The woman halted in her strike, lowered her sword and turned to face her, nodding as her eyes focused on the newcomer.

“Your Grace. Find yourself in need of a stump?”

 _Ha_. Her lips twitched. “That never happened, remember?”

“Of course.” Valerie smiled faintly; a distant sense of sympathy nestled into such a simple gesture.

“But if you’re offering…” Annaie unsheathed her sword. “I could use some practice.”

They faced one another, weapons in hand. Silence engulfed them both for a moment, then an invisible sign set them both in motion at once, trading blows to the echoes of the fort. She was less careless this time, less aggressive and fierce in her strikes; not guided by emotion, by anger. Valerie would always remain a better fighter, but in a friendly sparring match like this, she was capable of holding her own for a very long time.

One mistake. The sword went flying out of her grip and noisily collided with a nearby wall. A few breathless pants, then she wiped the sweat from her brow and gestured towards the lost weapon with a nod. “If my old masters saw that,” she wheezed, “they’d have me train until my fingers bled.”

Valerie relaxed her stance, lowering her own sword to her side. Her brow formed an elegant arch as she gazed at the picture before her. “Much as I dislike fanatics, the discipline of Iomedaean paladins is impressive.”

Annaie snorted. “How did you find out about that? Did Tristian tell you?”

A hint of amusement tugged at her friend’s carefully schooled face of neutrality. “With all due respect, the origins of your demeanor are hardly subtle. I recognize your fighting style, your posture, your ideals - Paladin orders frequently communicate. Order of the First Blade, isn’t it?”

Well.

Valerie was well-educated far beyond her ability to quickly end a fight, her Order had certainly made sure of that during her time under their tutelage, but she rarely attempted to boast with her knowledge unlike other members of the group. She hadn’t expected to be caught _this_ unaware, but it made sense. Sooner or later, someone would have to bring it up, at the latest when Mendev showed up for a little chat. Still, the taste was disgustingly bitter on her tongue; she hadn’t heard the name spoken in years and she had no desire to hear it again.

“Was,” she replied gloomily. “Not anymore.”

“Obviously. You’re a Cleric. I can’t help but wonder.”

Annaie crossed her arms, shifted her weight and thoughtfully gazed at the ground. “About the reasons?”

To her surprise, the woman quickly shook her head. “I may be curious, but such matters aren’t my business. If you wish to share them, that is up to you. I can listen, but I doubt I’ll have much advice to offer.”

“Thanks, Val.”

A quizzical arch upon her brows followed in response. “For common courtesy?”

Annaie shrugged. “Yeah. What were you wondering about, then?”

Valerie looked aside for a moment, brows furrowed in contemplation. The scar barely distorted her face, despite the prominence of it. Annaie tended to get second-hand embarrassment from the number of people commenting on Valerie’s “celestial beauty”; she herself had a bone to pick with the idea of celestial _anything_. Being chosen by a deity was about as fun as ruling a barony, which is why she reacted unkindly to the notion of being honored by it.

“You are very devout to the goddess whose service you were born into,” her companion finally began to speak, each word carefully chosen. “I’ve come to know you as refreshingly mellow in matters of faith, which I deeply respect, but I find myself wondering why. When my mentor came to collect me, you defended my choice to leave the Order and Shelyn’s grace behind. Most of your peers would demand that I follow the law of the gods.”

She snorted. The law of the gods…

“What law,” she mused, as she moved to pick up her sword. “The law of Shelyn? Of Iomedae? Of Sarenrae? Of Urgathoa?”

The sword, it was heavy in her hands. She weighed it, just as she weighed each word. “I think I believe in mortal choice.”

Valerie contemplated her answer, then tilted her head before she spoke. “But you continue to follow the goddess whose worship was forced on you.”

Forced… she’d been born into it, rather. Her existence was solely the work of celestial machinations. Her father, much as he had loved her, had never meant for her to be anything but a good soldier of Heaven long before her birth – before her conception. The mark on her face was one of sacrifice, not her own, but her father’s.

He had sacrificed her to the crusade. Then her mother had sacrificed herself. Then he gave himself, too. And then… then she would have joined the war and perished like them, valiant but fated to die the day she was born.

Once upon a time, she had struggled against these bounds. Then she had come to accept them and find peace in her role and she fought to meet her patron’s demands with great fervor often mistaken for absolute devotion. She had overcome her doubt in the past; the thoughts that now plagued her were of a different sort, and perhaps far more distressing.

The Stolen Lands were not what she had expected in life. No one could tell her why she was here. Her grandfather was silent. Her goddess never spoke to her. Her church seemed just as confused as her. Once, she had wondered how well her goddess could truly embody the ideals her peers claimed to espouse. Now, she wondered if these ideals themselves were truly right, something she had never doubted in the past.

Perhaps the worship of Iomedae had been forced on her, but she had made the choice to submit to it. With that thought, she turned to Valerie, a frown still on her face. “I nearly lost my mark once. I may lose it again, someday.”

Valerie now appeared genuinely curious. “How come?”

She shrugged. “I’m not the best servant out there, I think. A little too defiant for everyone’s liking.”

Her companion seemed to struggle to believe such claims; she raised her chin and raised a brow, lips pressed together tight. “You seem quite devout.”

The corners of her mouth twitched, hiding a bitter smirk. “Because things are always as they seem, of course. My lady has never spoken to me, but I tend to get a bad feeling when I’ve strayed too far, and I’ve been erratic as of late.”

What could displease her patron? Her acts of mercy? Her fierceness and anger? Her loss of self-control? Her constant doubts?

Her love for a mortal man?

All of it, perhaps.

As if irked, Valerie frowned. “How does that translate to mortal choice?”

It wasn’t easy to put into words. Perhaps it made no sense to another person’s mind. “I made the choice to have faith in the Lady of Valor because I admire the things she represents. It is my choice to believe her if she considers my deeds unjust and it is my choice to vow to do better. You made the choice to reject your fate. I made the choice to accept mine.”

“To me, that just sounds like lying to yourself,” Valerie replied curtly, visibly troubled.

“Perhaps. But if the only viable action in response to divine will is to reject it, that doesn’t really seem like choice either.”

Annaie shook her head and raised her blade in an open challenge. “I think I’m getting a headache, let’s stop talking about this.”

The fighter nodded and mirrored her gesture. “I concur. Let’s spar.”

* * *

The week following the meeting with the Cleansed, he expected every shadow to be Nyrissa or one of her servants coming to punish him for his betrayal. He had become a traitor to both sides, loyal to none.

The silence that followed was almost more distressing.

He found distraction in the heated arguments he led with Jhod, whose misguided ideas of the origin of the Bloom took wild, if understandable shapes. None of them could understand what truly plagued these civilians, and he had taken it upon himself to save at least some of those poor souls, if only he could convince the others to listen to him.

The day of the surgery, he spent his time preparing the room – a former torture chamber, disturbingly – for the procedure. Thoroughly cleaning the surfaces, speaking prayers to bless the instruments, gently talking to the patient… over the course of the day, two more infected turned, one of them a ten-year-old girl. The beasts were trapped behind the metal bars and quickly disposed of from a distance, but the sight was gruesome and the wails harrowing. He couldn’t sleep. It haunted him in his dreams each night, as did the faces of the Cleansed when Annaie had unleashed her fury on them.

All of that was his fault, because he was a coward. It would only take his word to end it all.

But then what? Nyrissa held his soul which he had damned with his betrayal, and would she still take him back after what he had done? And Annaie, how could she forgive him, after all he had done in Nyrissa’s name? After the death of all these innocent people? Neither had a reason to forgive him, and so he could only remain silent and pray, because he wasn’t strong enough for anything else. No, he couldn’t bear the thought of Annaie hating him and without Nyrissa’s favor, he could never return to his lady’s service.

Had he lost both forever?

Around noon, irritated arguing suddenly erupted in the halls of the old prison. Jhod had brought Annaie, Linzi trailing behind them with a notebook, and a dismayed expression on her brow.

Their Baroness had blood-shot eyes, a deep scowl etched into her sharp features, golden eyes gleaming with ferocity. Her halo illuminated the dim rooms, throwing sharp shadows against the old walls. Some of the patients called out to her as she passed them, calling for her help, telling her to do something, _anything_. She glanced at them at times, brows furrowed, lips pressed tight. She had nothing to say to them that could make it better and they all knew.

In the darkness of these halls, every word she exchanged with Erastil’s faithful bounced off the walls, echoing everywhere and nowhere. “I have _nothing_ to offer you, Jhod. I can barely heal my own ass if I fall on it. Why bring me here.”

“We’ve discussed this, Your Grace. You’ll just have to live with their accusations for a while.”

They both were visibly irritated as they entered the chamber, unwilling to compromise in their positions. Jhod was well-meaning but abrasive on a good day and both were deeply stressed due to the circumstances. It was a mess, but he could use it to draw her to his side in this debate.

“The accusations aren’t the problem, it’s that I have goblins to hunt,” she groaned.

Tristian offered her a tired, trembling smile. “Were you planning to leave without me?”

She stared at him for a moment. Then she sighed and ran a hand through her tousled hair. “No, I suppose not.”

Hands folded in front of his chest, he gently lowered his head. “Then this argument is pointless anyway.”

“Quite,” Jhod spat. “Is the patient ready?”

Tristian gestured with a nod towards the middle-aged woman who had made herself quite small in the corner of the room; he offered her a reassuring smile and called her over.

Annaie observed her with crossed arms, brows drawn together and lost in thought. Deep gloom marred her face, eyes sunken into their sockets, harsh shadows set beneath her cheek bones… she was foregoing sleep and perhaps food. This matter was drawing on her strength.

Still, she attempted something akin to a smile when the patient came to face her with a respectful greeting. “Thank you for volunteering, Ma’am,” Annaie said, genuine warmth in her voice. Tristian went ahead and laid out clean towels while the Baroness briefly conversed with the patient, Jhod spoke a few prayers, then Annaie joined them near the operating table.

“How are you going to do this?” she inquired, voice low. “You better have a plan.”

“I believe we should check the stomach,” Tristian replied neutrally, trying to mask his feelings on the matter with strength he didn’t have. Jhod threw him a sharp look – time for another pointless argument.

“Go for the lungs,” he insisted. “Your ideas on the matter make no sense.”

Before he could reply, Annaie stepped in. “Sweet valor- you _still_ haven’t ended this disagreement? Were you just going to cut her open without a plan?”

“No,” Jhod replied. “We’re going to let you decide.”

“You’re kidding.”

She stared at his fellow for a good moment, scowling. Eventually her face fell into her hands and she groaned, audibly exhausted. “You’re actually serious…” A cold, mirthless bark of a laughter shook her shoulders before her tired eyes resurfaced. “Alright, fine. Go for the stomach.”

“At least hear me out,” Jhod asked, voice harsh in disbelief.

“Listen, Jhod. I’ve told you a million times that I’m lucky if I don’t end up fusing my spine to my fingers when I try to heal myself, I don’t understand shit about this crap. You can repeat your thoughts to me, it wouldn’t matter. I can only go by which of you I trust more, and right now Tristian annoys me _vastly_ less.”

Before anyone could reply, shouts emanated from one of the corridors; the sounds of swords being drawn from their scabbards, loud yelling. A patient gurgling. Human tissue struck the walls, then the growl of a Manticore rumbled and echoed against the cold stone and deadly claws battered against iron bars.  

Annaie’s hand was on her sword before anyone else could even hope to react, but Tristian grabbed her by the shoulder. “The guards can handle it. We need to hurry with the surgery.”

As if to make a point, their patient began to cough into her hands until blood pooled in her palm; she looked ahead with exhaustion in her eyes, and a distant sense of pleading.

 _You’ll make it_ , he thought. At least this one. This one would live.

Annaie helped her settle on the… operating table and knelt down next to her, close enough to gently whisper words and prayers only their patient could hear. Jhod removed her clothes while he… he grasped his holy symbol, cradling it close to his chest, and began to pray. Each word imbued with divine will, filling the corners of the chamber with gentle light. Even now, throughout it all, Sarenrae was still with him. It was the only thing keeping him going once Jhod began to cut; the woman’s screams were loud enough to rupture ear drums. His prayers couldn’t hope to overcome such agony and it was all his fault. He was guilty – they were torturing this poor woman for his guilt, his failures, his mistakes. His cowardice.  

Their Baroness had managed to distract the patient with gentle whispers. At one point her hand fell on her forehead and she chanted a blessing, and the faith of two Clerics combined seemed to ease the horror at least for a while.

A faint glow began to emanate from the wound, signaling the bloom of the seed. His heart hammered in his throat while Jhod’s arm, now covered in red blood, dug around in the woman’s stomach. Finally he retrieved a kernel, barely larger than a pea, glowing and vibrating against his palm.

The seed barely hit the ground before seemingly expanding. Annaie sprang to her feet while Tristian hurried around the table and pressed his hands on the woman’s stomach, directing his healing at the wound. A massive bear burst into the chamber, their patient began to curse wildly at the beast’s sight, aware, perhaps, that this creature would have come from her body if they had taken only a moment longer. Brief chaos erupted in the chamber while Annaie and Jhod disposed of the bear, yelling breathless orders at each other in the process. If Tristian could’ve helped, he would have, but closing the wound took him longer than he had expected. The bear was already on its side when he finished, blood gushing from a deep cut in its throat.

Annaie coughed, sheathed her sword and stumbled towards the table with the instruments; she grabbed an empty bowl, bent over, gagged and… vomited. As if the situation had finally overcome her, she stood there, shaking, spewing the contents of her bowels until there was nothing left to spew.

He dared to shuffle closer, hand just shy of reaching out to her shoulder; she finally pushed herself up and straightened, batting his hand away as she wiped her mouth with her sleeve.

The patient, still shaken, had observed the fight and their Baroness’ following struggle with wide eyes. It couldn’t be illness causing such nausea, it could only be stress.

Annaie’s golden eyes pierced him; for a moment, he saw the shadow of despair hiding in these metallic depths.

“You saw none of that,” she instructed harshly, fierce gaze fixated on their lucky survivor.

“No- I mean, yes, Your Grace,” the woman replied, head bowed in deference.

“Good,” Annaie then spoke curtly; she wiped her hands on a towel, furiously glared at the ground for a heavy moment, then scrunched up her nose as if disgusted. “Are we done here?”

Although concerned, Jhod wisely nodded, and their Baroness left the chamber – and the field hospital – in wide strides. Linzi wordlessly trailed after her, looking even more dismayed than before. Long after the echo of the heavy entrance had faded, Tristian finally dared to release a sad breath.

“I worry…” he muttered.

Jhod though, he only frowned, then shook his head. “She’s strong enough to deal with it.”

_Such faith._

Tristian found himself lacking the strength to respond, lips pressed into a thin line. His fellow priest turned to him, a mild scowl on his brow. “I’ve told you not to baby her, Tristian.”

“She’s…”

His heart? His light? His sun? He still had no words for it. Perhaps he didn’t need them. Perhaps they were only for himself. “She’s my friend. I want her to be happy.”

A short, mirthless laugh, then Jhod turned away, once again shaking his head. “Friend, of course. You lovesick fool, I may be old, but I’m not blind.”

Lovesick. That seemed like such a nonsensical term, and yet it made perfect sense to him. It felt like sickness when she walked away from him like this, leaving nothing but aching in his heart.

“I still need to apologize to you, I was blind to the truth, it seems. Like a stubborn fool.”

Tristian shook his head, though he was secretly grateful for the return to the matter at hand. “Think nothing of it. You were simply mistaken, and I just got lucky.”

Some luck that was, being Nyrissa’s pet.

Back to work it was for them. He could think of it no more.

* * *

It was late, long past midnight, when he finally left their makeshift hospital. He’d grown too tired to work and Jhod had dismissed him with the words, “when did you last sleep, you dunce? Go and get some rest.”

Tristian had bitterly thought in response that he could try, but sleep would only haunt him anyway. He wondered if Annaie felt the same, tortured by nightmares of death and disease till morning. She’d always struggled with sleep, but she had never looked so drained.

Only that he deserved it, while she did not.

The cool air of the night was a welcome sting on his face, wiping away the exhaustion for a brief but blissful moment. Every breath roused him a little more. He opted to go for a walk before returning to his chambers for sleep.

The town was resting, despite the epidemic haunting the populace. It wasn’t much of a problem in Tuskdale, of course; the infections clustered around the river, where the goblins used the strength of the current to spread the seeds into the villages along its banks. Only those who came here for treatment carried the sickness within.

If only he could find a way to alert Annaie to this…

His legs had soon carried him to the herbal gardens, maintained by Erastil’s faithful. One of the most remote places in the town, kept alive throughout winter with the help of magic. During the day, a lively little lady would chase him out of the garden with her cane and threaten to use her last three teeth on his ears, and truth be told, he believed her. At night, the crone was hopefully asleep, allowing him to find some peace among the silent plants. There was no light to guide him while he trudged along the path, but he made it to the bench without stumbling.

Out here in the dark, he could finally close his eyes for a moment, and he listened to the quiet sounds of the night. The gentle rustling of the wind, faint calls of birds. Shouts and laughter of guards in the distance.

Footsteps. His eyes flew open.

A shadow emerged from the darkness, visible only in shape through the utter lack of light.

Still, he knew. Nyrissa.

The Nymph, he could feel it - she eyed him with mild disapproval, but there was no more cruelty there than usual. Although that was a sad metric to begin with.

“My lady,” he greeted, voice tired and subdued.

“Skylark.”

Something told him that he should be frightened. He should be crying for mercy, throw himself at her feet and beg. But moving was too tiring, too exhausting. Begging for mercy was too much work after he had spent an entire day treating people with a deadly infection.

Absurd, but oddly amusing.

Why bother? What for? Once, returning to his beloved Everlight was all he could ever have cared about. Now he found himself wishing to protect the one thing that stood in the way of his return, so close to the end of it all.

But Nyrissa, she cared not. “You’ve been insolent,” the Nymph spoke, voice harsh against the silence.

He exhaled. “I brought her to the ambush, as you asked.”

In the dark, he only saw her raise her chin. “Don’t play clueless with me now, my Skylark. You let her go, and then you let them go, too, and now I got nothing out of it.”

Oh, had she not gotten another kingdom ground to dust for her? How tragic.

“I’m very sor-“

Like whiplash, her voice thundered in his eardrums. “ _Don’t_ try to dazzle me, Skylark. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood, although I would’ve thought you more concerned for your soulmate’s favorite possession.”

He stirred, startled. The book. The book she had stolen.

How nonsensical – what use was this book to her if dead? Why play this game with him-

It materialized in her hands, still the same as it had been when she stole it, thankfully undamaged. Perhaps he could still get it back somehow, return it to Annaie, before he destroyed that part of her soul as well.

“Must you be so cruel?” he breathed, trembling.

“Cruel?” she asked, as if the word was foreign to her. “You think I’m being cruel, Skylark? I’m giving you a second chance. Isn’t that your favorite thing, showing mercy?”

The book unfolded in her hands; her slender fingers grabbed the first few pages, graceful and elegant.

And then she pulled.

A cold sting struck his heart, spreading from his chest to his limbs like a wave, reaching ever further as he watched her rip a fistful of pages from Annaie’s favorite book. The sound of tearing paper was all he could hear for a moment, somehow echoing in his skull long after Nyrissa has dropped the pages to let them scatter in the dirt.

_No…_

“This isn’t mercy,” he wheezed hoarsely. His throat had tightened, every word pushed through felt like agony, but he could no longer hold back. “This is a twisted mockery of… whatever you think mercy is.”

He couldn’t see her eyes, and yet he somehow still felt their burn. “ _Fix_ your mistake, Skylark.”

“How am I supposed t-“

 I don’t _care_ how. I have no use for insolent pets – neither has your goddess, I imagine. Nor your Baroness. You’ve made yourself useless to all your mistresses. I applaud your dedication to incompetence.”

Insults always stung worse when they were true. He really was useless. A useless deva, a useless skylark and a useless friend.

As if to kick him while already downed, her slender fingers brushed against his cheek, picking up the wet tears on his skin. “My poor Skylark, she must have confused you so much.”

How he wished to believe her gentle tone, suddenly sweet like honey, was real, but Nyrissa lied, she lied so much that the liar had become her second face. She knew how to wear her old skin, but it was that and nothing more – a dead creature’s hide.

“Make sure this doesn’t happen again,” she ordered, a harsh darkness beneath the sweet voice. Then she was gone, and he found himself alone, shivering and trembling.

Somehow it all burst forth, like a dam breaking; bent forward, shoulders shaking, tears just came and came, and he sobbed until his throat was raw. At some point he fell forward, sliding off the bench until his fingers hit the cold ground, stones dug into his palms and the crackle of crushed paper reached his ears.

He was useless, _useless_. A liar, betrayer, he had betrayed his lady Everlight, had betrayed his Fey mistress, and had betrayed his beloved Baroness.  His existence, nothing but lies. Her love for him a misguided hope.

All his deeds brought death and he was guilty of all the worst sins a deva could conceive of.

Annaie knew hatred, and once she knew _him_ , she would hate him most of all, for he was everything she despised. And his goddess, how disappointed she had to be, how _dismayed_.

Betrayer. Liar. Useless.

He cried until tears no longer came and a strange, numb sense of serenity engulfed him, his breath steadied and he sat up, shivering from the cold, but oddly calm, as if he had washed all the sorrow from his soul.

Aasethiel’s dedication stared at him, resting atop the crushed pile of pages, some dirtied, some stained with his tears. He gathered the pages into a neat stack, got up, wiped the dirt off his robes and made his way back to his chambers in quiet shame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only realized during my second playthrough how similar and Valerie and Annaie are, because I forgot to talk to Linzi the first time I played the game, so I never finished her personal quest. Yep, I'm horrible.
> 
> Edit: completely forgot to mention that I [drew Annaie](https://maximumdenial.tumblr.com/post/185825434541/been-meaning-to-draw-annaie-but-art-decided-it) because it was late and my brain was fried   
> sPoILeRs she gets wings......


	6. Trampling Flowers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to esteemed_professor for proof-reading this hot mess

_Useless_.

Nyrissa’s burning eyes, hot like coals. He couldn’t move, couldn’t hope to struggle against his chains; rooted to the ground, bound by his master’s heel like a hound. The visage contorted with sheer disdain, hatred pouring from every orifice, and so it morphed and stretched, melting in and out of liquid shapes. A cacophony of words numbed his ears, yet they all sung with each other, voices joining into a shrieking chorus of accusation.

 _Betrayer_.

Breath wouldn’t come. He inhaled, but his throat only whistled, an empty pipe long tired of singing the skylark’s songs. His chest ached, splitting apart with each beat.

Heartbeat? Heart…

The aching, it was emptiness, an endless void crying for a life to fill it. There was no heart beating in his chest, just empty, hollow space, beckoning to be filled. He had no heart, traitors had no hearts. Liars had no hearts.

 _Heartless_.

His mistress fell silent. Her face turned dark, burning coals became glowing coins of gold, a sword edged her sharp features, framed by the fringes of short, metallic hair.

No, _no_ , not her-

Her lips mouthed the syllables, _Betrayer._

The word split his teeth, forced into his mouth, pouring down his throat like liquid metal. It ached and burned, a pounding thunder in his ears, drumming against his empty ribcage in place of his rotting heart.

 _I’m so sorry,_ he cried, but his throat was empty, he had no lungs to speak with. He was hollow, just a skin, a mask, a shell. A liar.

Ebony turned to bronze, golden hair became fire. Metallic feathers framed her shape, and divinity burnt in her eternal eyes.

What strength he had, it left him. He fell to his knees, burying his face in his arms upon his most Holy’s sight. He was unworthy of her, her grace, her love, her light. A pathetic creature, he belonged in darkness, forever to crawl along the cursed paths of the fallen.

 _I’m so sorry_. _I failed you. Forgive me, forgive me-_

Her lips parted slowly, every voice fell silent, the chorus struck mute in an instant. They waited, clamoring for their mistress’ words, shivering in desire for his lady’s disdain upon him.

A single word, damnation taken shape, flowing from her lips like poison. The chorus resurfaced, endless, cacophonous wails.

 _Unworthy_.

His eyes snapped open, finding only darkness.

He gasped, desperate for air to fill his lungs. The dusty scent of his chambers coated his nose; his clothes clung to his skin, every inch of him drenched in sweat, and his heart – he had one, he realized with relief – it raced and raced and yet found no end.

Dreams. Just dreams.

He rolled over, reaching out to his bedside table, nearly fell out of bed because the strength had seemingly left his arms, but he still grabbed hold of his holy symbol, his fairest lady. The familiar warmth that always emanated from the metal that should otherwise be cold hadn’t faded, rather softly flowed into his hands and his body, soothing his frayed mind.

She hadn’t left him.

He pressed the symbol to his chest, breathing heavily for a harrowing moment. She was still there. His beloved goddess, her warmth still seeped into the fabrics of his being, drenching him in her divine light.

Still here. It was alright. He’d be alright.

Cold. His clothes stuck to his wet skin, now freezing in the cold air. His blanket was _drenched_. His sheets, his nightclothes, even his hair.

He slowly moved his legs off the bed, limbs still shaking and faint, and got up with his hand on the bedpost, still clutching his symbol to his chest, muttering frantic prayers to himself. The words came easily to him, practice, memory, millennia of being who he was. More and more they seemed to lose their power, but he couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ lose his faith in their strength.

He couldn’t. His lady hadn’t abandoned him, and he wouldn’t abandon her, never. Betrayer, liar, unworthy perhaps, but he would never be faithless.

Out- he had to get out. The walls were bearing down on him, suffocating. He longed for the freedom of the planes, the wind on his wings. _Wind_ , just wind would have to do.

A coat hastily thrown over his shoulders, the symbol still tightly clutched in his shaking hands, he hurried outside, nearly stumbling into walls several times. The moment he opened the heavy doors, cold air dug into his skin like needles, his bare feet sank into the snow. It ached, it stung; he relished the feeling.

Wind. He missed the wind. Even as it burned the thin skin of his cheeks and ears, as every inch of his body felt only pain. His back fell against the wall of the fort and he inhaled the stinging air until his skull began to hurt.

As long as it hurt, he knew he was awake.

* * *

 

_“I don’t want to do this, girl – but you’ve crossed a line.”_

_“I know.”_

_“Do you contest?”_

_“… No. I will accept your judgment.”_

* * *

 

Nok-Nok, the Goblin. Lamashtu’s chosen, as he liked to call himself.

Annaie, seated at one of the large tables in her grand hall, observed the creature making a minor mess of the dinner table not with contempt, but with mild exasperation and a whiff of despair. A month of waiting, and _this_ was the result. A Goblin following her around, thinking itself some grand hero, while people in her barony had exploding seeds in their stomachs.

“We’ve collected an impressive number of chosen individuals, don’tya think,” she muttered into her palm, which was tasked with upholding the weight of her entire head, overwhelmingly heavy as of late. “Chosen of Shelyn, chosen of Iomedae… supposedly. Tristian did call himself chosen of Sarenrae, though he said it was a joke. Why _not_ add a ‘Chosen Goblin of Lamashtu’ to this menagerie of insanity.”

Her head slid off her palm and collided with the hard surface of the table. Nok-Nok used exactly that moment to pounce on a fleeing rat in the corner, then proceeded to hurry over to the fire for a spontaneous roast. Annaie refused to check up on the source of the noise… nor the pungent smell of burnt hair that followed after.

Linzi paused in the middle of her writing. “Well, some of the greatest adventuring teams had mascots I… guess?”

Annaie’s voice was muffled thanks to her nose being pressed flatly against the table. “Did these groups include a Baroness and her traveling circus, by chance?”

“Well, there’s always a first.”

The heavy double-winged door creaked, echoing through the hall. By now, the sound had become as familiar as the shadows dancing on the walls, and the sounds of voices floating through the vast room, weaving around the oversized pillars. She’d asked to install carpets to make the echo slightly less unbearable, but the frequent traffic through the hall from outside would make keeping the place clean a nightmare.

Kassil emerged from the small gap. Her envoy briefly glanced at the ravenous Goblin with mild disdain, then stepped towards her in wide strides.

“Your Grace,” he greeted.

She lifted her head, leaned back in her chair and nodded. “Kassil. News or more nightmares?”

Nok-Nok made a yelp and leaped away from the fire, frantically waving his hand.

_Iomedae have mercy…_

She passed a hand over her face. “If it involves more Goblins, I don’t want to hear it.”

The Aldori eyed the Goblin with furrowed brows, then shook his head with mild exasperation. “I do not understand why you don’t simply rid yourself of this creature, but no, this is not why I have come. Two things. I have received correspondence from Mendev addressed to you, Your Grace. I also believe it is time to call the council and address this epidemic.”

He pulled a heavy parchment letter from his coat and handed it to her with a nod. She took it with a sigh but returned his gesture. “Gather the advisors, then. Let’s pool our information.”

Her General graced her with a half-bow, then turned and made his way back to the door, ready to execute her order.

The letter laid heavy in her hands, far heavier than just paper. A visible dent raised parts of the parchment and was hard to the touch. There was something besides words in there.

She sighed.

“What’s that?” Linzi asked, ever curious.

Answering ‘a letter’ was tempting but ultimately childish, and although her mood had her very much inclined, she just barely managed to hold back.

“Only one way to find out,” she replied, ran a hand through her hair as if to delay the inevitable, then she broke the wax seal. As she turned the envelope to help remove the parchment, a plain metal key slid out and dropped on the table with loud clanging. Its surface was old and scratched, and the only thing indicating its purpose was a small plaque attached by a string that read ‘Chiveire Shiftfeather’.

Within seconds, every piece of her went cold, freezing cold.

 _Not_ that name. Not these memories.

“Your family name?” Linzi mused as she grabbed and obliviously dangled the key by the string, eyeing it with curious suspicion.

The memories, they had taken hold without prompting, clinging to her with vigor.

As she closed her eyes, the scene around her unraveled, dissolved; from its ashes, the recollection of the Order’s gardens began to rebuild itself. Green grass, paths of stone, grand fountains. White roses. The scent of fresh vegetation, of air. A hint of smoke clouding the senses.

There was sun on her skin, a remarkably bright afternoon in this northern bastion. Her pants were stained green from running and stumbling. Cuts covered her small hands, but she ignored them. Golden strands fell just barely past her shoulders, flying wildly around her chubby face with every whirl and twist.

Pressed against the cold wall, fingers digging into the dirt, she laid low beneath the bushes, peering through the gaps in the foliage. Clawed eagle’s feet trotted past her, followed by giant lion paws; her heart missed a beat. Chattering voices, clattering armor. A beak clicked, followed by a curious screech.

A pair of yellow eyes came to level with her, peering through the bush. The gryphon, head tilted comically sideward, blinked and trilled a greeting at her, ruining her brilliant camouflage.

She was about to dash when a pair of strong hands caught her by the waist and hoisted her up without warning.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

That was a familiar voice, deep and strong and flowing like the river-current, booming loudly in her ears; although each word was spoken with gentle warmth, her father’s warmth. She came face to face with him as he seated her on his arm - his ebony skin, his eyes of molten gold, the metallic hair pulled into a tight braid, leaving his sharp features bare.

Instead of being indignant, she immediately threw her short arms around his neck, a wide grin splitting her face from ear to ear. “You’re back!”

“I am, and you obviously weren’t prepared for it. Look at all that dirt on your face.”

But he smiled, his _eyes_ smiled; the grace of homecoming never left his presence when he and his most faithful made the long journey back to Nerosyan.

As she wiped the dirt off her cheeks, her expression morphed into a pudgy grimace. “The Warden lied! She said you weren’t going to come.”

Though he scowled softly, his warmth didn’t waver, and as his large fingers passed over her little palms, her cuts and bruises faded away. “Don’t accuse people of lying so lightly, dove. I truly thought I would not make it, and thus I told the Warden I would not.”

His sharp feathers, hued in valiant silver and ever-shifting, gently brushed against her cheeks as his wings, broad like sails, unfolded and resettled against his back.

The memories, though so very warm, were blurry and distant, beholden only to their own chaotic logic. The next moment, she was no longer in the garden. They had returned to the courtyard, where hoofbeats and the echoes of clashing swords sang the endless rhythm of the temple. They would soon celebrate, and the whole city would sing this song, their ode to courage.

“Behold, I have found our wayward child.”

As if to present her to an audience, her father held her up in front of his chest, strong grip nonetheless never wavering. She feared little when he was near, and so stretched out her arms as if flying, taking great amusement in her epic feat.

“Seems she learned to fly a little early,” he stated warmly, then returned her to the boring safety of the ground, where she had to stand on her own two feet like everyone else.

 _Bleh_.

“Watch it, Seth. You’re gonna give her ideas.”

Mother was a stocky, perhaps somewhat below-average-sized woman; although only a few brave souls would dare to call her short. Auburn hair framed a freckled, sun-kissed face and bright, piercing eyes the color of pure emeralds. She always had a smile hidden away within them, tugging at her features as she spoke. Some had called it her greatest weapon, her true strength. Nothing could dampen the fire of determination that fueled this heart.

“I wanna fly like papa! And the gryphons!” Annaie declared resolutely, spreading her arms wide. She squinted as if intense concentration truly would allow her to sprout wings and fly away. Unfortunately, no such thing happened, leaving her with only a petulant pout.

Mother snorted and poked her father’s chest, whose hands immediately shot up in mock self-defense. She raised a brow. “Told ya.”

The scene came undone, ripping from her the memory of her mother’s face and voice. They were but shadows now, specters of a distant past, cobbled together of blurry impressions and moments lost in time - and all that was left, a name on a key.

Chiveire.

Annaie swallowed the lump in her throat and willed her voice to function. “It’s my mother’s.”

_And mine._

She had managed to get by without using her family name outside the most official of correspondences, and few people actually bothered to ask. So many people had no family name, and hers had started as more of a title than a true name.

She unfolded the letter with sweaty hands; Eryil’s writing greeted her jagged as ever. Her eyes skimmed the two pages of text without finding a single mention of the key, until, at the very bottom, it read:

_‘P.S: The Grandmaster of the First Blade has requested that you receive that thing. Don’t shoot the messenger.’_

Her jaw clenched, teeth grinding.

_Sends me my mother’s fucking vault key and mentions it in the last sentence._

Linzi, upon the sight of her apparent displeasure, slowly lowered the key to the table, laying it down next to the unfolded letter. The atmosphere had turned awfully frigid, which she slowly began to feel rather guilty about.

Still. That damn Tiefling.

_Don’t even pretend you forgot, Eryil. You did that on purpose. Don’t shoot the messenger, my ass._

She passed a hand over her face, sighed, took a moment to appreciate this wonderful mess, then pointily stuffed the key back into the envelope and slipped the whole thing into her pouch. “Like I can do anything with this,” she muttered to herself as she worked her jaw. “I’d have to go back home.”

Linzi bit the terribly mangled end of her favorite quill pen, as if struggling to hold in a thought.

“Out with it,” Annaie groaned.

“Maybe they want you to?” she suggested gently. “Come back, I mean.”

The Grandmaster of that particular order asking her to come back would be… something. Oh, that better not be the case.

Nok-Nok had taken to trying to climb the pillars in a relentless quest to reach the chandelier and Annaie had very little desire to deal with it. Either he’d fall and break his neck, in which case she was tempted to save the money and not revive him, or he’d manage to reach the chandelier and burn down the entire fort.

Either way seemed fine to her at this point.

The heavy double doors finally swung back open, creating room for a steady stream of haggard-looking advisors to make their way into the hall, tailed by an exhausted Kassil who resealed the entrance in a harrowing act of finality.

Tristian looked about ready to drop dead. Jhod seemingly hadn’t slept in a week. Valerie’s appearance was _shockingly_ unkempt. Octavia… well, she managed to look flawless, but her posture betrayed her true exhaustion. Jubilost _mostly_ looked the same. Then there was Kesten, who was… hard to read for her.

They all took up seats at her table, Tristian immediately claimed the free spot to her left, dropping his warm hand briefly on her shoulder, and then the council was set to begin. She massaged the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger, considering how to address this absolute mess without sounding like defeat was imminent. Although it potentially was.

Damnation.

Nok-Nok had given up on the chandelier and turned to devouring the left-over chicken from this night’s dinner with vigor.

Well. At least it wouldn’t go to waste.

She sighed.

“You all know why we’ve gathered here so I’ll do us all a favor and skip the pleasantries. I’ve got monsters rampaging in my barony, I’ve waited a full month as requested, and so far, all I got out of it is a prison full of potential health hazards and a Goblin tearing up my fort. Please tell me _one_ of you came up with something short of covering this entire region in holy fire.”

Kesten slowly shook his head. “We need to hurry. If we don’t find the source of this blight and eliminate it, we may end up with a rebellion on our hands.”

Wonderful.

The next minutes were spent summarizing the knowledge they had gathered over the past month. The disease was an ingested seed. The humanoid cultists of Lamashtu were likely not involved. The Goblins only seemed to profit from the problem, they weren’t the cause of it. The monsters likely originated from somewhere not on Golarion, for they were unusually large and strong. Her personal guess was still that they came from the First World, just like the Nymph that had decided to make her an enemy.

None of that got them closer to finding out where the hell these things were coming from. She glared at the map spread out on the table, while her advisors exchanged wordless glances – safe for Tristian, who was deeply focused on his documents.

“How do flower seeds spread…” she muttered. Animals. Birds? The wind?

“Water.”

Tristian had leaned over the map next to her. He rose to his feet for a better overview and she followed suit, hoping to recognize whatever he seemed to have spotted.

“What do you mean?” she asked, glancing at his face shadowed by his hood - but his carefully maintained neutrality betrayed little emotion as he focused on his task.

“Two things,” he said. “The infection only afflicts villagers. There have been no recorded cases of the disease within the city limits, except for those who came here looking for the cure.”

That… was true. Tristian would know better than her, of course, since he and Jhod had been handling the treatment of the diseased, but…

Jhod rose from his seat and spoke up. “That’s right. Thus, we can assume a common factor in how people are exposed to these seeds: many villages get their food from the same territory.”

Tristian seemed unconvinced and shook his head. “It’s not the food. Look.” He began to trace a line on the map. “We have the most cases of the disease here, here and over here. Monsters mostly attack here and here.”

Like a neat line, the points he traced followed a clear path down the-

_You have to be kidding me._

“That’s the Gudrin river,” she groaned, as the realization hit her like a sledgehammer. “Heavens, we’re morons. Bless you, Tristian.”

His lips only twitched; he shook his head and averted his gaze. “It took me just as long to notice.”

Kesten got up from his seat. “If you allow me, Baroness, I’d like to take the lead on this. I’ll take the best members of the militia with me and sweep the woods along the river. We’ll look under each and every rock if needed. After everything they’ve been through, these people deserve a chance to discover the source of their misfortunes.”

The militia…

On one hand, even the best of them could, at best, only hope to match the strength of a poor warrior, but the barony was short on true fighters after the struggles with the trolls and these monsters. She was loath to send even more valiant people to their possible deaths, and if they were going to run into something they couldn’t handle… not to mention the fact that many of them had poor restraint, and may refuse to listen to orders when faced with their tormentors.

But Kesten was right and they were a convenient option in the face of an absolute lack of such.

“If you think you can maintain order, Kesten, you have my permission. But I ask that I do not arrive at the site of a bloodbath.”

The man bowed, visibly ready for action. “I thank you, my baroness. I hope you’ll join us soon.” With these words, he turned around and left, marching towards the door with wide, determined strides.

 _In due time_ , she thought. _Don’t create a mess._

With that matter taken care of, she turned to her Councilor, whose gaze still rested on the map. “You’re thinking about something.”

He bit his lip. “I think these seeds are not the only sign of something… abnormal at work. Remember the ruins, where we first met? The glade near those ruins, full of huge flowers?”

She tilted her head. Yes, she remembered those strange and other-worldly flowers, which…

“They’re all over the Stolen Lands,” she mused, rapping her knuckles against her teeth. “The portal seeds resemble flowers too… you think these are connected?”

 _Wait_.

Flowers. Nymphs. First World. 

“I need to find that damned Nymph.”

Something lit up in his eyes, like a tentative spark of joy, caught and left to die before it could become a fire. “I think she might be-“

Her Councilor was cut short by the sound of hasty steps reaching them from the entrance of the main hall. Kesten had returned, genuine horror all but wiping away the determination he had shown. “Your Grace! We have trouble! The peasants are rioting!”

Glorious.

“Ugh, that’s the only solution these nitwits could come up with?” Jhod passed a hand over his face in pure exasperation as she barked a burst of mirthless laughter. _Nitwits_ , hah. Finally someone was on her side in this matter.

“Don’t worry, Baroness. As long as they’re not setting fire to the streets, we still have a chance of coming to a peaceful resolution.”

She was _somewhat_ past being able to not worry at this point, even as Tristian laid his hand on her shoulder and somehow extended the tendrils of his soothing presence to her mind. Sweet as his smile was, by now the agitation sat too deep within her very bones.  

“If you’ll allow me, I’ll go and speak with them, do my best to calm the crowd down,” Jhod offered with a half-bow and an almost pleading look to his dull eyes.

_Don’t trust me, old man?_

 “We’ll see. Let me figure this situation out first,” she replied warily, before beginning to hurry towards the large, double-winged entrance. The shouting grew louder and louder as she approached the door, the guards and her advisors quickly dashed to her side just as she pushed open the massive wings.

For a moment, the shouting grew deafening; she pushed past a pair of guards keeping watch in front of the gate, a ring of more guards just barely kept the crowd at bay. Most of them nervously held on to their swords, still sheathed, as their shields formed a closed line.

She saw the stone coming a moment too late.

Searing pain briefly blinded her, the world around her faded to black as distant ringing filled her ears. She grabbed the nearest shoulder while the sharp sting on her temple sent her staggering and barely managed to hold herself on her feet with the combined aid of two people flanking her.

Shouts. The sound of blades being drawn.

Blades _._

 _Shit_.

“Hold! She hollered, although the effort itself seemed to shatter her skull and almost sent her stumbling once again; her vision hadn’t even fully returned to her yet, but all the noise suddenly died, voices dropped to a low murmur. As she looked up, she saw her guards, all on edge, shields up, swords drawn; ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

_Steady now._

It was Jhod’s shoulder she had latched on to. Her High Priest laid his fingertips against her temple and whispered a few quiet words; the wound quickly faded, but the trickle of blood running down her face remained along with a distant, dull ache.

All eyes were on her and her alone. She took a moment to observe the crowd. Simple people, the lot of them. Some had armed themselves with the classic pitchfork, others had simply brought a torch. None of them seemed to have any combat experience, not with the way they carried themselves.

Jhod wished to speak in her place, but she knew it wasn’t right. They needed to hear the one who had failed them. They needed to hear their Baroness.

For a moment, she felt it all. Her own body, the ache, the exhaustion. The desire to simply lie down and sleep.

Her mother’s key rested heavy in her pocket.

How had they done this? How had he? Speaking to crowds. Inspiring them. Giving them the sense that success was possible. He’d led armies into certain death, aware of doom all the while, and they’d all gone proudly anyway.

She took a deep breath.

“Please hear me out before you lynch me!”

Her voice seemed louder, so much louder; it bellowed and filled the spaces between the buildings, echoing across the square. Awareness of the scene washed over her like a wave, threatening to pull her off her feet as her legs quickly turned soft. Right now, it was only her in the middle of this giant stage, every sense focused directly on her, every syllable from her lips imbued with the power to bring forth calamity. 

She thought of her father as he addressed his soldiers, his knights; thought of his booming voice, his confidence in every word. And then she thought of her mother, walking among kings and nobles way beyond her station with her head held high. If she could have only a fraction of their strength, she may not fail.

“I know you’re tired and disgruntled. I am as well.”

_How did you do this?_

“We’ve struggled to save who we can, but this disease has us facing enemies we do not understand. My companions have foregone sleep and food day after day to find a solution to the horror that haunts you.”

She exhaled. Her hands were shaking; her fingers pressed against her chest where her own holy symbol rested below her tunic. Its comforting shape was familiar to her even through the thick layers of fabric above it. Unlike Tristian, she didn’t fiddle with it all day or stick it in everyone’s face at every opportunity, but as a good faithful, she always had it with her, right above her heart.

“I understand it doesn’t bring back the ones you’ve lost. I know my words may seem hollow to you who have suffered.”

Words. They were just words if there was no intent behind them. She summoned her patron’s conviction to aid her as she spoke. “I swear on the Inheritor’s name that I will do all I can to end this, but I _need_ your faith.”

Just as the last word passed her lips, a gentle presence brushed against her mind, cozy and warm. For a brief moment, she felt confidence and joy and comfort surging through her body, washing the exhaustion off her skin. The whisper of warmth on her skin imbued her words with the sincerity of a hard laid bare, though, in the back of her mind, she knew she had just received what amounted to a divine pat on the head.

 “Please return to your families. Your loved ones. They need you more than they need the fruits of this pointless bloodshed.”

The crowd seemed somewhat swayed by her words and perhaps also by the faint glow of something otherworldly engulfing her body - although quiet mumbling passing the ranks soon broke into angry arguments as people began to come to their own conclusions one by one.

Still. If they were fighting themselves, they at least weren’t fighting her. She wisely kept quiet as they argued, though the urge to defend her pride and honor was unsurprisingly strong.

“The lady’s right, y’know. Not like killing her is gonna do anything.”

L _et’s pretend for the moment that you could actually succeed in doing so_ , she thought wryly, a dry sense of humor was the only thing keeping her somewhat sane for the moment.

“You actually believe this nonsense?!”

She pursed her lips but remained silent as the peasants argued. Her Councilor took the moment to step next to her, throwing her a meaningful look that she could only read as ‘hold back’.

_Thanks for that nugget of wisdom, Tristian._

As their interaction passed unnoticed, the arguments continued on the square. Someone bellowed, “she’s not the one making us sick, so why would killing her even do anything?”

Her face seemed to translate the words that remained unspoken, and he returned the favor with a mildly indignant frown.

“Pitiful fools! You doom yourselves by entrusting yourselves to the one who _angered_ the great goddess! Rid yourselves of her, and you shall end this affliction!” She nearly growled in frustration upon the sight of Remus, looking filthy as ever, emerging from the crowd. Right, she really needed the Cleansed to show up _right now_.

 Tristian seemed to shrink beside her, his bright presence getting a little smaller. His cry for mercy had brought them to this point; otherwise, these fools preaching a false religion would likely be dead or in chains.

_You couldn’t have taken care of these guys at some point?_

No. No, he couldn’t have, because he’d spent all his waking time trying to save people from certain death. As much as the Cleansed annoyed her, she couldn’t allow her anger to cloud her judgment- she couldn’t turn on her subjects and friends.

“The old man’s right! The Baroness is cursed!” one man hollered, angrily waving his pitchfork with very little regard for the lack of space on the crowded square.

 _Cursed with bad luck,_ she thought, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Oh get that fuckin’ nonsense out of here already,” one of the rioters replied with the most disdainful look she had ever seen. “Killing her won’t do anything. I’m going home.”

The man dropped his torch onto the wet cobblestones and stepped on the flame until the fire died; then he turned his back and simply left, the crowd parting around him. Some of the peasants exchanged meaningful looks, silence reigned for a moment, then they turned, one by one, until the square was largely empty save for her slightly confused, if rather relieved ring of guards.

The tension fell off her shoulders with the weight of a mountain and a sudden sense of dizziness overcame her in one nauseating surge. She immediately grabbed the next shoulder she could find; this time, Tristian was the unlucky chosen one, though he endured his fate with quiet dignity. 

He looked somewhat startled by her condition but wisely shut his mouth while she used his support to regain her balance over the course of several minutes. The moment seemed endless, unwavering; her fingers dug into his robe while she fell forward, leaning her weight against his body. The overwhelming feeling of nausea grappled her, she fought against the rising sensation, building, growing, making her stomach churn and rumble.

Eyes closed, breathing in and out. Steady.

A warm hand on her shoulder channeled soothing energy into her body, then the nausea eased, allowing her to carry her own weight and free him from her grip. Still, she trembled as she breathed deep, her stance was shaky and her voice feeble once she spoke.  “We must go. Now.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she had already turned to walk back inside and ready herself for travel.

* * *

 

They caught up to Kesten and his militia along the banks of the Gudrin River after a day of fast marching, just in time to rescue him and his bravest from a band of jeering Goblins.

The group was barely large enough to even come close to fazing her party at this point and yet Kesten’s men hadn’t been able to handle them. Disappointment was perhaps too strong a word to describe her feelings, but she definitely wasn’t impressed. They were common men briefly trained to hold a sword, not hardened adventurers and soldiers steeled by years of experience. Almost like the hordes of bodies Mendev threw at the demonic invaders these days.

But if she wanted morale to stay up, she’d have to swallow her sour mood.

Besides the exhausted men of his militia, Kesten’s camp also housed a large group of civilian survivors, who looked tentatively hopeful upon catching sight of her amongst the ragged-looking guards, relatively fresh and unspent in comparison. She eyed them with weary suspicion, knowing very well what they might be, and yet it was not their fault. 

“Kesten,” she said, voice firm, “what’s the situation?”

The man looked grim. “There’s a fort of Goblins ahead, Your Grace. My scouts couldn’t get close enough to determine the layout, but we know they’re keeping people as prisoners there.”

She looked at his ‘scouts’ with a raised brow but said nothing.

_Don’t discourage them._

“What about these civilians?” she inquired.

“They… escaped, somehow.”

Tristian and Kanerah both reacted in their own ways, one with a frown, the other with narrowed eyes. She herself crossed her arms, tilted her head and looked them over. They were broken people, the lot of them. Many looked sickly, weak and trembling. On top of it all, terrified.

Though he tried to hide it under her intense gaze, one of them began to cough, shivering as his hand, already coated in dried blood, caught more and more of the crimson liquid pouring from his lips.

“Kesten… they’re infected,” she breathed darkly.

“Unfortunately.”

Gloom shadowed her face. “How many.”

“I… it’s hard to tell, Your Gra-“

“You don’t _know_ ,” she interrupted, voice sharp. “Tristian, how long until bloom once a patient starts coughing blood?”

The somber shadow in his eyes spoke of bitter melancholy as he stepped up beside her, hands folded on his chest. The symbol of Sarenrae glistened between his clamped fingers; the blood had drained from his hands, leaving them chalky white.

“An hour,” he replied. “At most.”

An hour. The capital was a day’s march in good health. Surgery was the only possible treatment. Impossible to perform in such a setting, with only one capable cleric, a cleric she needed by her side in battle.

Her eyes darted back towards the men Kesten had gathered for his militia; somewhat well-armed, but many of them seemed barely capable of telling the handle from the pointy end of a sword. Their postures were awful, their movements jilted and janky.

If these monsters bloomed, they would falter. A group of _Goblins_ had nearly brought them to their knees, how were they to face Hydras and Manticores? Even worse, the civilians were sick, most of them would probably struggle to even get up fast enough to escape.

Her gaze fell on her companions. Of all those present, only Tristian seemed to understand – his eyes had grown wide, brows deeply furrowed into a grimace of horrified realization. For only a short moment, their eyes fully met, and she took in his expression of horror with a sour taste on her tongue. And yet, despite all these emotions that seemed to grapple him, he said nothing at all. A side of her pleaded for him to interfere, to say something, to stop her as he had done many times in the past.

But Tristian said nothing.

She stared at the man whose shaking hands spilled blood all over fabrics of his pants. The haggard face dared not to stare back, deference and fear and perhaps… understanding. As she stepped closer, hand on her hilt, the crowd parted around her as much as it could, with only him remaining where he sat, hunched and broken.

“Do you have a family, sir?” she asked him, hoping to keep her voice steady; she summoned images of her instructors consoling the lost and forsaken, priests tending to the lonely and dying. Their posture was that of steadfast resolve.

Perhaps they had lied, pretended. Or maybe she was just weak.

How had he done it? Would she ever be free of this question?

The man looked over his shoulder. They were hidden by the crowd, but their reactions betrayed them even to her untrained eye. A woman held a young boy close to her chest, eyes wide and full of fright.

He understood. He knew what was going to happen to him. He’d heard Tristian’s words. If he was an honorable soul, he’d have nothing to fear going forward.

As she drew her sword, the grip was heavier than ever in her hand. Gasps followed the motion, drowned out by her voice; she kept it steady by sheer willpower as it echoed among the tents and bodies. It was their horror and fright that kept them from realizing her hand was shaking and it was good that way, for if she had to be cruel, she could at least aim to not be weak as well.

“I cannot save you,” she spoke. “But I must save them. I pray that you can forgive me for my failure.”

_How did you do it?_

If only she could look as strong, as unwavering.

A clean strike parted the man’s head from his shoulders with minimal splatter. A morbidly clean affair. It rolled off his neck and through the snow until it came to a slow halt in front of her feet. Empty eyes stared at her. Lifeless.

_How did you do it, papa?_

The body slumped and fell over with a thud. She lowered her sword to the ground with its tip and laid her hands on the pommel, squared her shoulders and forced herself to lift her gaze away from the head below. She had to face the ones who suffered her failure. Their fear. Their horror.

She couldn’t run from her decisions.

Wails would’ve been expected. Accusations, maybe. But these people were so tired, so traumatized, they just stared at her without a word.

Just another moment, then she turned. Her companions regarded her with various degrees of disagreement, grudging acceptance, and plain apathy. Tristian sought her gaze; when their eyes met, she saw the dulled edge of sorrow in his eyes. He said nothing.

Shaking off the image, she finally turned to the militia’s captain.

“Kesten,” she spoke, voice somber. “If they start coughing blood, give them the choice to walk away as far as they can, as fast as they can, or give them a quick death.”

“Your Grace,” he replied hastily, “these men-“

_No. Don’t let him argue with you. Don’t._

“Can they fight a Manticore?”

A beat passed in silence. “… We’ve faced a few.”

“While protecting civilians? How many men did you lose?”

She looked at the group of tired soldiers, scowling. They flinched under her sharp gaze; once again the weight of her rank and presence struck her unprepared. “I vaguely remember you left with more than that.”

He frowned.

Gaze downcast, she exhaled, seeking resolve she didn’t have. “It’s painful, I understand that. If you wish to protect your men, strike the killing blow yourself. I do not give orders I’m not willing to execute myself, Kesten. If you cannot do this, go. I will leave one of my companions here.”

“No, Your Grace.” His eyelids fell shut. “I’ll do it.”

It all fell at her feet in the end.

A few words of planning followed before she made her way towards the village. Tristian fell into step with her as she walked, a mild scowl on his brow.

_Here we go._

“Are you alright?”

She froze on the spot.

“Yes.”

Eyes of gold, striking like lanterns under the shadow of his hood, studied her face with beseeching intensity. Suddenly she felt like being stripped naked, robbed of all her defenses, taken apart and observed like a case to document.

She’d never felt such compulsion to lay herself bare through looking at his eyes. It was unnerving.

“It’s nothing, Tristian.” Her voice trembled. “If you disagreed, why you didn’t you say anything?”

A beat passed. He finally averted his gaze and she felt like heavy chains just snapped in half and slid off her shoulders.

_What in tarnation?_

“I… I don’t know what the right thing would have been,” he said quietly. “If there even was a right thing to do…” His shoulders slumped, fingers still clutching his golden symbol. “I mean no harm and I’m not here to judge. I just need to know you’re not hurting.”

  _Oh Tristian…_

Ever sweet and caring, even when she didn’t quite deserve it.

“I’m fine,” she responded, willing herself to keep her voice steady. “We have a job to do.”

He looked at her for a silent moment, head ever tilted so slightly as a visible crease slowly appeared on his forehead. “As you say.”

* * *

 

After freeing the majority of the prisoners and a short argument with Kesten, she managed to send the man back to the capital instead of running straight ahead into trouble once again. Her own group had to travel at a slower pace to escort the sick civilians, of which several turned before the journey was over.

The assault on the capital itself seemed to pass her in a haze. She spent her time chasing from battle to battle as monsters broke forth from every direction, and then that giant bear – like she’d become the main character of a truly ridiculous bardic tale. How much it had wrecked, how many lives it had taken, she knew not. Perhaps she intentionally forced herself not to take in such information before the danger was truly gone. The streets around her were utter chaos as they hurried back through the gates and returned to the road.

The entire way from her city to the Womb of Lamashtu, she was focused. Too focused to be spoken to, even as they camped. She drove them to the edge of exhaustion before she allowed them to take a break.

There was no time to waste.  She wouldn’t kneel before a Nymph with an attitude problem. She would _not_ falter.

At night, she did not truly sleep, not once during their three nights of camping. The one time she did briefly slip into slumber, she dreamed of the burning wheel. Tristian grudgingly replenished her strength with spells, but a distant sense of exhaustion remained; magic couldn’t easily replace the value of a good night’s sleep. It felt like a detached frenzy. Light flickering at the edge of her vision, sounds that weren’t truly there. Her body kept going, but her mind felt as if wrapped in cotton.

Their journey led them into the First World, where the air was strange and the ground even stranger. Foreign shrubs and greenery, otherworldly flowers – flowers she’d seen within her own lands, sprouting in these unfamiliar glades. Wandering these wondrous wilds, surrounded by colorful birds and insects and animals, they came upon strange illusions, scenes playing out in front of them like colorless plays by faceless actors.

Indeed, as her entire party froze, she alone remained in motion, stepping towards these images of a court. A trial. People of strange shapes, their faces nothing but a blur; in their midst, a Nymph, passing them with bitter pride to her steps.

It was her.

A white shadow moved into her field of vision, shuffling just past the edge. Tristian had walked up next to her, coming to a thoughtful pause as the scene unfolded around them.

The specter of a giant, glowing… ball floated right in the middle of the court, surrounded by swarms of Will-o-Wisps muttering endless streams of condemnations. 

_Get Ready. Get Scared. Listen. Learn._

“That’s the Lantern King,” she noted with astonishment. Knowledge of all sorts of deities and demigods had basically been hammered into her head. It was comparatively hard to forget or misremember this one. His shape _was_ rather simple.

In the faint glow of the glades, his spherical body was the brightest source of light, throwing shadows around himself like the spikes of a sorcerer king’s armor. As if the world sought to center only on him, pulling all attention to his luminance in the dark. And like his light, his voice became the anchor of all existence when he spoke, silencing every other sound.

So he spoke his judgment with an authority she had seen before, the confidence of a being that had passed many judgments before and knew it would do so many times more.

_“Make ruins of kingdoms. When each is dust, the grains shall gather in this vessel. When a thousand grains are gathered, bring it before us as an offering so that an Eldest may sip from it.”_

Make ruins of kingdoms. Her lips twitched.

So that was why, was it? Just another game of the Fey. Another pointless intrigue. Was this the great cause she supposedly couldn’t understand? The happenings beyond her comprehension? A giant ball flinging curses around itself?

Immortals and their disdain for all things fragile. Why preserve a flower when you could just gleefully trample it.

Tristian touched her hand; when she looked upon him, a tender gleam softly lit his golden irises. She realized that she’d started trembling without her notice, nails digging painfully into her palms.

His eyes sought hers, even as the scene around them continued and eventually vanished. For a moment, it seemed as if he tried to find the strength to say something hidden away in his mind, but he ultimately turned away without speaking a word, releasing her hand from his grasp.

They continued their path through the strange twists and turns of the untamed First World.

The old gnome’s riddle guided them. They rested for the night, but she couldn’t sleep with the strange sounds and creatures and sights all around her and while time passed, she felt the pressure of the catastrophe weighing down on her despite the strange veil of distance the surreal atmosphere of this world laid around her.

There was no sleep to be had here.

Illusions at times danced around them, strange memories of bygone eras. Most of them seemed to belong to that Nymph that haunted her steps, but other figures passed in and out of these scenes like ghosts, specters at her beck and call.

In the furthest corner of this forest, their path was once again blocked by the strange mist that could only be traversed with their magical lantern, and the silhouette of the Nymph suddenly materialized next to her, white and faded and blurry, voice so distorted, it might as well be demonic.

_“No one will ever see my tears again. Neither mortals of Golarion, nor the one who cursed me!”_

Annaie held back a bitter laugh in response. That was quite a dramatic monologue to have in an empty space. No sympathy for angry Nymphs. She _knew_ anger. She’d yet have to kill thousands over it. What curse could be so engulfing to let so many souls suffer for it?

The space didn’t remain empty for long. A pale ghost drifted into her field of vision; a blurry visage hidden by both the distortion of the illusion as well as the hood pulled deep into its face, attached to what seemed to be a barely discernable robe. The shape of the figure alone was enough to send a cold, sparking shiver down her spine and a sense of dread slowly spread from her heart to her limbs, freezing the blood in her veins along its path.

The voice that left its mouth was too distorted to be recognizable, flickering in and out of existence like a spirit tied to two planes at once. She didn’t know whether she should be grateful.

_“You wished to see me, my lady?”_

It echoed and echoed, it never seemed to stop.

_“My skylark. Your song is so sad today. What troubles you?”_

Although distorted beyond recognition, just the tone of voice was so very familiar. That fake sweetness, the rotten tenderness the Nymph had used on her to gain her trust. It made her stomach churn now, and somewhere deep below, the _anger_ boiled. She lied, she manipulated, she used everyone as she saw fit, and none had chosen her as her master. The Nymph chose her pets.

_“Your last order, my lady… it frightens me.”_

The figure seemed anxious, retreating into a familiar, somber sense of quiet.

_“The seed of an Everblooming Flower is almost prepared, as you requested. But what will it bring?”_

_Death and destruction, obviously. Don’t you know what monster you serve?_ she thought bitterly. It helped keep the doubt at bay. Doubt and fear.

_“The flower contains immense power – power from which immense evil can be born. Monsters erupting on Golarion by the hundreds… in a crowded street, a busy tavern, near a baby’s crib…”_

The pale ghost seemed lost in its dark thoughts, but the Nymph snapped out of her sweetness in an instant, as if simply throwing off a second skin.

 _“That’s_ exactly _what I need. He wanted to see kingdoms in ruins? He will!”_

That voice was so cold, so angry, so hateful- it genuinely made her shiver, all her hairs standing on end. The illusion collapsed in on itself and the foreign sounds of the native wildlife came rushing back in, but she took a moment just standing there, staring at the spot that had held a vengeful spirit and her anxious servant.

_Skylark. Skylark._

The shiver didn’t waver.

She looked over her shoulder. Tristian’s hooded figure in stark white and gold painted a bright contrast against the lush vegetation and deep verdant scenery. His face… was almost as white as his robe.

No. Perhaps the sheer rage of that Fey had simply frightened him. He was sensitive to true evil. Perhaps he had never seen anything like it. Perhaps, perhaps he just-

She shook her head as if to shake off the thought and oppressive feeling. They had to find the flower and destroy it. Nothing else mattered.

Nothing.

They continued to make their way, and despite the confusing maze-like conditions and the magical fog dropping them at random places, they eventually found the heart of this catastrophe. A massive flower, each curled leaf as long as a human, with roots as thick as her arm digging into the strange earth beneath.

All this because of a flower. It seemed to shudder periodically, almost seeming to shift in and out of existence like a pulse passing from its roots to its petals.

All this…

It was surreal. So surreal, she felt the urge to throw back her head and laugh.

 The plant writhed and withered from a single drop of its owner’s hatred, shrinking and pulling into itself, leaves blackening, petals crumbling.

As if summoned by the fading of immense power, the old gnome who had guided them to their fortune stepped from the drifting mist. She regarded him with tired wariness; he had helped them, but that hardly made him a friend. The Nymph had helped her too, and this is where her help had taken her in the end.

He smiled at her, but his smile was uncanny. “Well done, child. But your work here isn’t finished yet.”

Of course not. It never was.

“Before you go your way – a question,” he croaked. She tilted her head, frowning.

“You’ve seen the story of the trespasser, you’ve seen Her fall. Love and pride brought Her to this. You follow the same path, you also crave the crown. Why?”

A gleam of something distant and far more powerful glistened in the gnome’s pale eyes.

What a strange question. She’d never asked for a crown. She’d been thrown into this mess at the behest of her revered guide, not by her own desire.

True to her convictions, she turned to the gnome with a frown. “I don’t crave this crown, I was sent by my superiors.”

 _Although_ …

She’d not come here for her own reasons, but it would be a lie to claim that she hadn’t become invested in the Stolen Lands and its fate. For a moment, she bit her cheek as silence took the group.

Eventually, she looked up, focusing once again on the gnome. “Making the world a better place is my duty and I prefer to do so by ending the suffering of others. The Stolen Lands have much of it.” 

He smirked. “A noble motivation. But do you really know those you seek to protect?”

No. Could a ruler ever truly know all those she had dedicated herself to? The sacrifice was to protect them anyway, as best as she could, even if some would end up betraying her dedication. That didn’t lessen the importance of it.

Bad things existed. They had to be kind in spite of all the evil in this world, rather than adding to it.

She closed her eyes and inhaled. It was time to trample this flower.

* * *

 

If Nyrissa weren’t cursed already, he would’ve cursed her then and there.

Although they had previously returned to defend it from the assault of every remaining infected blooming at once, they’d scarcely had time to assess the damage inflicted on the capital. Now that they’d returned from the First World victorious, the taste of success quickly faded as they stumbled through the ruins of their once somewhat prosperous city.

Days had passed, and yet clean-up had scarcely begun. The bodies _reeked_. Human and monster alike. He had to cover his nose at times, otherwise, the intense stench threatened to overwhelm him. Buildings turned to rubble; families ripped apart. Amidst the wreckage, the intact shrines – protected by the might of their deities - seemed strangely macabre a sight, rather than the comforting presence he had expected. He wondered if the divines seemed blind and aloof like this, ignorant to mortal suffering.

The path towards the fort was long and arduous. Annaie walked it in utter silence, eyes darting here and there. Taking in the pain and misery engulfing her barony. The people paused as she passed, yet few greeted her with anything kinder than a respectfully lowered head. Some spat at her, cursed or glared, but she barely seemed to notice.

He watched her as she climbed over collapsed walls, shattered pillars, burnt homes. The whole city was yet in mourning, struggling to comprehend the loss. In places, he saw piles of bodies stacked on top of each other, tended to by overwhelmed priests, men and women who hardly had the time to speak with every grief-stricken mother, wife, father, husband – there were too many. Everyone had lost.

No one was spared.

In a city with only a few thousand inhabitants, the fatalities ranged in the hundreds, not to mention all the injuries that might never fully heal. A loss of life, love, and family that seemed impossible to fathom. Guards swept the streets for orphaned children before crime could become their way of life. The destruction worsened the closer they got to the heart of the city, where the clinic had held most of the infected. The massive owlbear had been removed, at least, leaving only a stain of leftover fluids where its body had fallen.

 Near the main square, he watched her stumble, pause and stare. She disappeared inside the ruins of a building faster than he could blink, leaving him to chase after her or lose her trail. The stench drove tears into his eyes as he climbed into the ruins, making his way past scattered household items, shattered furniture, and blood. _So_ much blood. Stains on the walls, the floor, bones, and innards scattered – spread throughout the room in a morbidly neat circle, centered on a single clean spot in the remains of the family’s kitchen. Starting there, a trail of destruction through the house, marking the path the creature had taken on its way outside.

They had to have moved here from one of the surrounding villages. There was no other explanation.

Amidst the wreckage he spotted the mangled, crushed body of a young woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties, lower half obscured by a collapsed wall. Only then did he finally see what had caught Annaie’s attention. Hidden away behind the overturned table, a small child clutched a trembling dog to her chest. Five, perhaps six years old. So scrawny. Overwhelmed, exhausted.

Utterly broken. 

He felt numb. It tingled, in his fingers, his toes. Ringing in his ears.

Madness. This was _madness_. How could they… how could he…

How. Why. Who could be so _cruel_.

The child looked up only as Annaie knelt down in front of her, reddened eyes wide and fearful. She didn’t seem to recognize the rank of the woman before her, nor did she appear entirely aware of her surroundings. Or the passage of time. It was as if she’d been frozen there, holding that animal to her chest, the only right thing in this world that was so wrong. 

“Hello,” Annaie breathed softly, subtle cracks in her otherwise so melodic voice. He strained his hearing to catch the words, reluctant to come any closer. Panicked as the girl seemed, adding another presence was potentially dangerous. And in any case, he had no right to be near.

Not with her family’s blood on his hands.

For a long, heavy moment, the child said nothing. His heart hammered in his ears, carrying the rush he couldn’t feel otherwise. As if the cold grip of death had grasped him, left only his soul alive in his forsaken skin.

 Finally, a faint, trembling voice barely broke the silence. “Hello.”

He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere, but he especially didn’t belong _here_. Although he deserved the suffering, _they_ didn’t deserve to live in the shadow of their tormentor, not knowing the severity of his crimes.

His feet turned and carried him outside, but her voice continued to haunt him as he left.

“Is this your dog?”

 _This is your fault_.

He should find Jhod. Or Valerie. Octavia. Anyone. Find something to do. Busy his hands – he was a _healer_ , surely there were injuries for him to heal. Something, _anything_ ; he had to redeem himself.

_Nothing could redeem this._

“Tristian,” her voice broke his moment of self-loathe. She was carrying both the girl and the dog, the first had dug her small hands into her shirt, while the latter looked vaguely uncomfortable and still trembled heavily in her arms. “Take the dog.”

He took the dog.

“Need to find Jhod,” she declared, voice held together by nothing but a frail sense of duty, and then she marched towards the remains of the makeshift hospital without another word. He trailed after her, taking in even more of the destruction. Cleanup had begun around the main square; some of the bodies were neatly lined up and covered with sheets, blankets and whatever else they could find. Busy hands were moving rock and rubble.

Near the entrance to the main hall, Jhod conversed with a pair of agitated priestesses; Tristian soon recognized the garbs of Iomedae and Pharasma. Both maintained sizable presences within the city, though the Iomedites had recently received an actual temple building due to Annaie’s decree.

She carefully settled the girl on the stairs, and he handed her back the dog with a gentle smile, but the child wouldn’t even look at him, either glancing at the ground or her canine companion with anxiously wide eyes.

Poor child. There surely were many others like her in the city, and as he rose back to his feet, he already caught scraps of the conversation their Baroness had been pulled into. He swallowed the anxiety that had grappled him and drifted to her side, well aware that he had duties to perform.

“Your Grace, you’ve returned.” Jhod, whose voice sounded tired and scratchy and had since the day this whole catastrophe had started, greeted Annaie with a hint of relief, weakened but not extinguished by the utter exhaustion that had taken him.

“My lady,” the Iomedaean priestess greeted, followed by a courteous nod. Tristian quietly joined the conversation next to his leader, acknowledging all the participants with a half-bow.

“I have eliminated the source of the monsters,” Annaie stated, though any spirit of success in her voice had long since died, and now only a grim weariness remained. “What’s the problem here?”

“We’re trying to find a place for some of the children, Your Grace. The orphanage was already unable to accommodate for the many children left homeless by the Troll rampage,” Jhod relayed with quickly fraying civility.

“Our humble hall was destroyed by the Owlbear you disposed of,” the Pharasman priestess immediately declared. “We already didn’t have much space to speak of.” The woman eyed their Baroness with a hint of distaste – likely due to the fact that a temple had been granted to Iomedae, despite the prevalence of Pharasma worship in the region. “Thankfully none of ours were harmed, but with all the dead bodies…” she trailed off, leaving everyone else to reach the obvious conclusion on their own. They were thoroughly ill-equipped to take on the task discussed.

“Have you found accommodation elsewhere?” Annaie inquired. Tristian tilted his head as he listened intently; many of her brothers and sisters held a grudge against Pharasma. He yet had to witness her act out such tendencies, but in times of great distress, the darkest thoughts often made their way to the surface unhindered.

“Erastil’s faithful have taken us in for the time being, but their halls are providing for many of the sick and injured-“

“So are we,” the priestess of Iomedae interrupted, seeming somewhat agitated.

He saw Annaie frown. “Erastil’s hall is barely large enough for the priests already living there.”

“So it is,” the Pharasman replied. He knew her, Tristian realized; Ilea. People of the cloth residing in the same city just ended up running into each other frequently, even if of different faiths. Spiritual matters didn’t end at the divine hall’s threshold. 

“Iomedae’s temple is large enough to provide space to many. Have you filled it already, Jana?”

The priestess frowned at her sister’s words as if caught with an embarrassing truth. “The _space_ , no. Our hands, certainly.”

Like a spark, something lit up in Annaie’s eyes. “Let Pharasma’s servants dwell with you, then.”

“Your Grace, you know we-“

“Gods may have the luxury to quarrel, but we do not. Pharasma's servants are performing vital services to the departed and ensuring these souls that were taken from us so violently do not return to haunt us.”

“Of course, my lady.”

Tristian felt somewhat sorry for the woman – she was obviously young, taught only by scripture and should-be’s and somewhat overwhelmed by the situation. Annaie, meanwhile, was a hardened warrior and experienced traveler, and beyond that, familiar with the weakness of her own faith. That was a trait he found difficult to admire, but the longer he walked beside her, the more he realized its strength couldn’t be denied.

“Moreover,” the Baroness continued wearily, “I ask that you take the remaining children the orphanage cannot handle.”

As if struck, Jana reared back, but the hard edge in Ilea’s eyes seemed to soften ever so slightly. “My lady, we-… I, I’m not sure how…”

“Because?”

“It’s- We already cannot handle all the people coming in for treatment, and then the children, too… there’s only three of us doing all of the work, one of ours was injured severely in the chaos.”

Her despair was genuine, he could feel that much. The temple was likely handling much of the workload – the clerics of the city in general probably had their hands full, all of them, no matter their faith. Annaie, too, could tell as much. She exhaled, crossed her arms and scowled at the ground for a long moment as she worked her jaw.

Finally, after a heavy silence, she raised her chin and spoke. “Do you think that’s the response our Lady would give? It’s too difficult to help, so we shouldn’t try?”

“We _are_ helping, Your Grace. But we’ve reached our limit, none of us have the strength left to offer our services.”

“Convictions are easy to have when they’re not being _challenged_ , Jana. We’ve asked people over and over to be virtuous in the face of adversary. We cannot withdraw when such adversary has come for us at last.”

Something somehow changed in the priestess’ eyes; they softened ever so slightly, reflecting a gentle light he hadn’t seen in them before. “That is true, of course. I’ll… I’ll see what we can do.”

The Baroness nodded, already opening her mouth to reply. Yet before she could say anything, he took a tentative step forward, laying a hand on her shoulder. “If I may…”

A brief moment of surprise had her pause and stare at him; he suddenly found himself uncomfortably aware of everyone’s attention on him, but he replied with a polite smile.

She eventually nodded. “If you have something to add, by all means.”

 He took a deep breath. “I realize you would be reluctant about taking in even more strangers of the faith in your sacred halls, but if you would find yourself willing to provide food and a place to sleep, I know some of my fellow faithful were traveling through the Narlmarches not too long ago; I had a brief encounter with them while performing my duties. I’m sure if I reached out to them, they’d be happy to help.”

The woman’s eyes widened; she paused a moment, astonished, faltering visibly before beginning to formulate a response. “Their help would be most welcome, Lord Councilor.”

He nodded. “Excellent.”

“In the meantime,” Annaie followed, “at least take this child and her pet. She’s in a terrible state.” Gesturing at the trembling girl, she stared at the priestess with unparalleled intensity. Jana though simply nodded, perhaps inspired by the Baroness’ preceding speech.

With this matter resolved, the small group soon dispersed while she remained there, looking somewhat forlorn. Jana went to pick up the girl, Jhod retreated to coordinate transfers, Ilea returned to her duties.

He remained, finding himself unwilling to leave her alone.

Annaie slowly turned on her heel, gaze drifting from side to side. Up here atop the hill, so close to the place where her reign had once begun, the view of the city she had built - at times with her very own hands - was entirely open to her wandering gaze. Every building, every street, every dark corner stretched out before them like a large maze, once so beautiful through the colorful roofs bathing in bright sunlight; the flags, the banners, the garlands, the flowers. Her city defied the harshness of the land, its people bloomed in the face of any adversary with fierce determination.

But now a different sort of bloom had nearly destroyed them. Pillars of smoke billowed from ruined buildings even days after the disaster. In some places, embers still faintly sweltered, waiting only for a strong gust of wind to rise again. Walls knocked over, paths cut off, gardens destroyed. The bodies of monsters and people alike scattered amongst it all, blood-red splashes in the streets where infected had bloomed, and when the wind carried the scents of the city their way, the odor of death and decay harshly bit his senses.

For a moment she just stood there among the rubble, eyes strangely glazed over as the gruesome sights of a city in ruin seemed to sink in, stone for stone and corpse for corpse. And with each, the weight on her shoulders seemed to grow heavier, pulling them ever further down; and then her chin fell to her chest, a heavy breath shook her form, suddenly she seemed so much more vulnerable, so…

Gaze glued to the ground, her brows furrowed into a scowl, her lips twitched, she seemed to rapidly cycle between anger and grief within seconds, every burst of emotion ever more intense. Tension grasped the muscles of her body that had to be quivering from exhaustion and soon she wheezed from the strain, every breath became shallow, her eyes darted left and right, seeking something, anything to grasp.

Grasp and destroy.

Whatever bold spirit took hold of him at this moment, he thanked it profusely, for he quickly stepped before her, blocking the view of the chaos and rubble. With his own senses being this close to her, he finally saw the depth of exhaustion, the tendrils of grief tightly coiling around the lights in her eyes, the force of a dominant mind upholding a body that could take no more, that should indeed have collapsed and taken its deserved rest long ago.

“My city…” she breathed with quaking voice, and though her hazy gaze was now upon him, it seemed to pass through his body, reaching far beyond, seeking solace and answers on the endless planes in the distance.

Should he… _could_ he? Did he have a choice? Left unspoken, every sting of pain within her became anger, her anger that she hated, the hatred that came from anger; it fed itself like a snake eating its own tail, spiraling ever further. Every jab at these wounds could only build more pressure within the system that had no end, only a boundless source.

Her lips quivered, he saw her jaw clench, her throat tighten. She bit down on her grief with fury, rejecting her own weakness.

He couldn’t _let_ her.

If he let her, it would all just become more pain.

What could he do? What _should_ he do? He wanted to beg his lady for answers, but he feared she wouldn’t have any.

He timidly raised his hands; pausing briefly, hovering near her shoulder as her seemingly pupil-less eyes momentarily focused, _truly_ focused on his face and he suddenly shivered, utterly harrowed, struck by the depths of _failure_ she had lowered herself into. It wasn’t her fault, none of it was, but she saw blame with herself and her alone because she had power, and power was responsibility. It was all hers.

As he reached forward and his palm gently fell upon her shoulder, as the coarse fabric of her tunic rubbed against his skin, the moment somehow became its own world, unfocusing all that had been laid to waste around them. Every ruined soul faded into the background, becoming only faint noise. She moved before he could, pushing into him with all her weight. He had no time to be startled, no time to worry about it; her arms wound tightly around his chest, fingers dug into his back and she soon hid her face in his shoulder. As he mirrored her pose, tentatively laying his arms around her, he felt the tension he had seen now push against his body, felt every taut muscle, the rigid pull that held her upright through sheer defiance.

More than anything, he felt all of it _crash_ in his arms. It collapsed not gently and quietly, but with a merciless vengeance, coming apart at the seams; the strength she had poured into keeping her throat locked left her body, and then it all somehow came out in a single choked sob, muffled by his shoulder, the layers of fabric and his very own body.

If no one could see her being weak, then he’d let her hide it with him. 

Another one then, it forced its way out more than she let it; he felt her struggle against them even as they stood there, the illusion had long since been shattered to pieces and _still_ she couldn’t let it go. His palm rested against her back, sensing every instance of her battle with herself, every sob as it built in her chest and clawed its way up her throat.

 Soft pressure against her spine, he gently pulled her closer to himself; it seemed to soothe a little, for her vicious struggle lessened, and then the tears and sobs just came and went as they needed. If he hadn’t felt it against his own chest, he reckoned he wouldn’t have known; though the subtle vibrations were like massive earthquakes against his arms, to the rest of the world he had simply locked her in a long embrace, granting her his solace and strength but nothing else.

“My city, my- my _people_ ,” she croaked, muffled against his shoulder, and he gently drew circles on her back, although it somehow just worsened the flow of tears. Perhaps that was… good, in some ineffable way, releasing things she couldn’t let go of on her own.

“Fuckin’ bastards,” she cried, though her voice scarcely obeyed her. It cracked and quivered with each word, a rough, scratchy struggle for control of her vocal cords. “Fuckin’… bastards…”

Bastards indeed…

He had nothing to say to her. He couldn’t… he couldn’t keep telling her that things would be fine when he knew that Nyrissa would never rest as long as her cruel task was unfulfilled. Her burden was so much heavier than a barony, it was the full brunt of an ancient Nymph’s hatred and anger, and Annaie’s sheer _defiance_ , her unwillingness to give up made all of this so much harder to bear.

And yet… it was that nigh-indestructible aura of hers that took his breath away, to his _shame_ –it broke her to be everyone’s beacon all the time, with no respite, no moment of rest. She had no one to be soft with. No one to admit weakness to, no one to…

It almost made him want to laugh, in a bitter and biting kind of way, for he sourly realized that just like him, she had no one to truly be _only_ herself with. Only herself. Only Annaie. Not the baroness, not a servant of Iomedae. Just… just her.

Perhaps she thought it had to be like this. Perhaps… she’d grown as a servant, aged as a servant, lived all her life as a servant. But he knew to be that… he knew it, and he had never doubted it- until his service had fallen to Nyrissa, a mistress he hadn’t chosen any more than he had chosen Sarenrae, and yet despised.

Choice. Neither of them had much of it.

As a Deva, he had never felt alone, even as he traversed the darkest corners of the Great Beyond with nary a soul in sight. Now he was lonely, and _she_ was lonely, although people were never far; he felt it as much as he felt her tears soaking his robe, her fingers clawing into his back, the warmth of her body against his even as she mourned the cold death his pride and cowardice had wrought.

It was the cold he deserved, but all she ever gave him was warmth. 

His embrace grew tighter, ever tighter. It was selfish, but he couldn’t let her warmth vanish in this cold, unforgiving wasteland, this wilderness of curses and bitter spite. This playground of a broken Nymph.

It did _something_ , once again – she returned his gesture, grip growing so tight he momentarily felt he couldn’t _breathe_. Her sobs subsided slowly, but she wasn’t willing to disengage.

Another long moment, both of them silent, unmoving. And then, just as awareness of their situation slowly began to return, she finally pulled back from his embrace; he easily let her untangle their limbs, though cold filled this space she had once inhabited. Her eyes sought his gaze, locked him in a seeking stare, though he knew not what she sought. The redness in her eyes and the flushed cheeks were all that remained as evidence of her moment of weakness, the steeled resolve had already returned to her sharp features, though the expression retained a hint of weariness.

It would remain his secret. He gently reached out; she closed her eyes on instinct as his thumbs brushed over them, he whispered gentle words and bright light passed through his hands and into her skin; the irritation quickly faded.

As he withdrew and her eyes fluttered open, she briefly furrowed her brows. Her voice was still scratchy as she spoke. “I… I think you should’ve saved that for someone who needed it.”

Perhaps, but still, he shook his head. “Your strength matters to your people, but if an illusion suffices, a simple spell may serve many rather than one.”

Her eyes darted to the side, passing over the battered roofs beyond the cliff. “You think I should lie?”

 “I think you should know when you’re facing impossible expectations,” he said softly.

“If their expectations are impossible, then I am too weak.”

And yet, as she spoke, the pain in her eyes betrayed only the wish to succeed. A desire for peace, but also a desire not to falter for her own sake. To be known, to be acknowledged and praised. He saw it because he knew the pain of pride himself.

How ironic then that they had found themselves in this conversation before.

“What could you have done differently, do tell?”

Her eyes widened, gaze darting back to his face. The sound of her own words turned against her briefly froze her in place and they stared at each other in silence. Another heartbeat, then her focus dropped towards the ground, she exhaled and crossed her arms, pulling up her defenses.

“What could you have done,” he continued, “that doesn’t rely on what-if’s and knowledge you didn’t have?”

She bit her lip. “The location…”

“We never thought to compile a map of the locations. You couldn’t have, you didn’t know. Knowledge of the affected villages was spread among different people. Jhod and I were one of the few aware of most of them. If anything, it was our failure.”

She looked at him with a spark of disapproval to her eye. “You were busy saving people. I had nothing to do.”

“You have _everything_ to do. We can focus and prioritize. You do not have that luxury.”

A beat. She looked away. The argument had run its course, silence settled for a cold moment. Then, she stirred, exhaling unsteadily.  “I should start on getting this mess cleaned up,” she mumbled.

“Try to rest.”

Her lips twitched. “At this rate I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

“You may find death not as restful as you think,” he replied tentatively, rolling the words on his tongue as they came. She frowned.

“How would you know?”

“Call it… clerical intuition,” he said with a soft smile, a gesture that seemed to make all the difference, for her stance relaxed just a little.

“I’m a cleric too,” she muttered with something akin to petulance clinging to her voice. Before he could respond, she shook her head. “I will go and take care of the things that piled up while we were gone. I have a request for you.”

He tilted his head attentively. “Of course. Speak.”

“I may have convinced them, but in truth, I made unfair demands to my temple in the name of necessity. Their workload has to be absolutely atrocious.”

She’d known the entire time that Jana’s concerns were valid, but she had asked them to overstep their limits just as she overstepped her own. There was valor in that, an understanding among faithful that he perhaps couldn’t quite understand. Still, it made him feel the warmth that only the presence of forces working in tandem for the greater good had ever brought forth, a feeling he had missed during the long years of his servitude.

That moment, she could have asked him to face a dragon in single combat and he would’ve charged with pride.

 “You are a skilled healer,” she spoke, almost as if musing to herself. “Your offer of finding support is great, but until they arrive - _if_ they do - I ask that you go and help out my brothers and sisters in faith and tend to the wounded.” She paused. “And the children, I suppose. I reckon they’ll love you.”

He wasn’t quite sure why she thought so, but helping fellow clerics do what he was born to do was hardly a great sacrifice to make. He firmly nodded. “Of course I’ll help as much as I can.”

The gratitude radiating off her was palpable. “Thank you.”

After a few more words, they parted ways; he watched her pace towards the fort in wide strides, pushing past soldiers, workers, and harrowed civilians, presumably to meet with her other advisors. Their moment seemed to have given her new strength to deal with what lied ahead.

Whatever that may be. She and her barony had survived one of the worst weapons he had ever brought into Nyrissa’s service.

His shoulder was still damp from her tears. She had gone back to steadfast resolve; it was as if her grief had never existed. He alone knew otherwise. His fingers brushed over the coarse fabrics and after a dazed moment, his nails clawed into the worn robe until he felt the pressure dig painfully into his skin.  

Her pain, his shame. His secret.

Their secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are hard  
> welcome to mortal life. it's hell until you die Tristian
> 
> I still don't know pathfinder lore. Sue me, I'll do what I want


End file.
